


This Troubled Man

by ErykaOnyx



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-05 16:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21211622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErykaOnyx/pseuds/ErykaOnyx
Summary: Edward awakens in the Narrows, distraught and guilt-ridden from the attack against Lee. His fragile psyche is under too much pressure so he volunteers himself to Arkham. With the help of his criminally insane peers and one eccentric young psychologist, he will explore the different parts of his psyche and decide on the type of man he wishes to be.*A counter part fic to Playing Dangerous Games





	1. Splinter

He experienced the sensation that occasionally occurred upon waking wherein he did not know where or who he was. This lasted many blissful seconds before his name returned to him. He was Edward Nygma but he still didn't know where he was. 

He turned his head and his eyes landed on the bed next to him, where Lee 'The Doc' Thompkins lay. He flinched hard at the sight of the unconscious woman and immediately felt a searing pain in his abdomen. His hand hovered over the throbbing area and he remembered the sick feeling of the blade penetrating his flesh. The shock of it was making his stomach turn over. That and the guilt. Riddler had made good on his threats and now Lee lay near death. That he had survived an identical attack didn't seem to matter to him. He had nearly killed her. 

His thoughts were scattering when the door to the room opened and in walked an Asian woman with her hair pulled back, carrying a tray of food. "Oh, Mr. Nygma. I didn't expect you to be up so soon."

"Who are you?” he demanded. "Where am I?"

The woman set the tray carefully on the night stand between the two beds. "Calm, Mr. Nygma. You're safe. You are still in the Narrows, a few blocks away from Cherry's. I am Mrs. Huang and you're in my home."

He relaxed only minimally. "What happened?" He said softly. 

"You and the Doctor were attacked. No one saw the assailant but you both were found bleeding out in Cherry's. You were brought to my home and I stitched you up."

"Are you a doctor as well?"

Mrs. Huang shook her head with a little smile. "A seamstress."

Ed shook his head and struggled to his feet. "I have to go," he muttered, stumbling.

The seamstress moved to his side quickly. ”You're in no condition to go anywhere. Lay back down,” she said, grabbing his arm. 

As soon as she touched him, he jerked away and felt the sudden homicidal urge to drive a knife into her. That desire must have showed on his face because Mrs. Huang immediately let him go and took a small step backwards. 

Ed took a slow bracing breath. "Thank you for your assistance but I need to leave. Can you bring me my clothes, please?"

Mrs. Huang nodded slowly. "Your suit was ruined,” she explained. "Too much blood. But I'll bring you clothes that fit." She quickly bustled from the room, leaving him alone with Lee. 

He approached her hesitantly, looking down on her with distress. He remembered with sickening clarity how it felt to slide the knife into her, cleave her flesh. It was the same sensation he’d experienced when he’d murdered Officer Doughterty. He cared nothing for that man but Lee… He raised one trembling hand to hover over her face, wanting to caress her cheek, feel her warmth under his palm. But he didn’t dare. He’d nearly killed her. He could never touch her again without remembering that. 

“Mr. Nygma?”

He jumped at the sound of Mrs. Huang’s voice and spun around to see her with a pile of folded clothes in hand. She set them down then turned away and began gathering items into a cloth bag she carried. Ed hurriedly grabbed the shirt from the pile and began to replace the one he was wearing with it. He bit back the gasp of pain he felt when he pulled his shirt off. He took the moment to inspect his new scar, a small, unassuming thing gracing his belly. It was sensitive to the touch but he felt an odd sense of satisfaction feeling it throb occasionally. Pain was fine. He deserved it after all. 

He had redressed in minutes into the denim jeans and loose t-shirt Mrs. Huang had given him and faced her. She was regarding him with a look of faint disapproval. “You should stay in bed. If you’re not careful, you’ll pop your stitches.” 

“I’ll be careful,” he promised as he slipped his feet into shoes. 

She moved towards him and held out the bag. “Take it. There’s food, medicine, and money inside.” 

Ed stood, taking the bag from her. “Thank you.” He moved towards the door. 

“What should I tell the Doc when she wakes up?” Mrs. Huang asked him. 

Ed paused thinking about it. What could he possibly have to say to her. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. It was him, not me. All of them felt like feeble excuses. “Don’t tell her anything,” he finally said before exiting the room. 

He stumbled through the Narrows streets, recognizing neither face nor landmark. Eventually, he managed to hail a cab and dropped into it, giving the driver an uptown address. He had, in the course of criminal enterprises, saved enough money to maintain a couple properties around the city, for when he ever needed to vanish to a home base of sorts. He was heading there now, to a neighborhood far from the Narrows and all that had happened there. Though no matter how far he traveled, his mind stayed behind in the place he’d left. His limbs were trembling, his throat thick with the emotion that choked him. He must have looked a twitchy mess but managed to hold it together until the cabbie dropped him off in front of his place. [He was too distracted to exit down the block and obscure the knowledge of his address.]

Moving on autopilot, he retrieved his key from the place he’d hidden it and let himself into his apartment, a stylish and modest condo with his characteristic furniture arranged about. Once in the safety of his own home, he let himself unravel. He dropped into an armchair and sat there, shaking, rocking slightly, trying to calm his rapid breathing. 

“Can’t say I saw that one coming,” a voice spoke up. 

Riddler had materialized, leaning against the window frame. He looked less giddy and put together than usual. Ed regarded him with a sullen expression, “She should have killed you.” 

“She nearly killed us _both_,” Riddler pointed out. “I must say, she continues to surpass my expectations of her.” 

Ed grit his teeth as he glared at his counterpart. “She defended herself against you! I knew you would hurt her.” His hands fisted at his temples and he bent over, eyes shut in sorrow. “I should have just killed myself when I had the chance. I could have saved her. I should have done everything I could to keep her safe. She believed in me and I - I - “ 

Riddler rolled his eyes in annoyance and opened his mouth to speak when he felt a strange sensation and another Ed appeared across the room. This Ed was sitting in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, head lowered morosely. “I’d just be better off dead,” the third Ed muttered. “And everyone else would too. I’m useless, a nothing.” 

Riddler’s brow furrowed before he felt the sensation again and once more, another Ed materialized. This one’s hair stuck up at all angles and there was a wicked look in his dark eyes and crooked smile. This Ed surveyed the room for a moment and licked his lips. "That was fantastic!"’ he growled with a low voice. “Definitely the best night we’ve had in a while.”

“Well, this is interesting,” Riddler commented, his gaze traveling between this new Edward and the one rocking in the corner. 

The newest Ed’s head jerked up at the Riddler’s words and he watched him with a wide grin. “You’re the one who was in charge when we stuck it in the Doc,” he said slyly. His eyes were glistening with a mad light. “Lucky dog. I would have liked to see the look on her face.” 

“It was rather poetic and all,” a new voice joined in as another Ed appeared, legs slung over the arm of another chair. This Ed was clean cut but with a splash of makeup, green glitter under his eyes. His chin propped up in one hand while he watched the others with mild amusement in his expression. “Shakespeare himself would have been proud. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!” he declared loudly. “And, lips, O you! The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss. And thus with a kiss I shall die. A splendid curtain call it would have been for us, O brothers.”

Riddler blinked in confusion. Interesting though this was, he didn't need any more weak personalities to deal with. "Why don't you all pull together and get lost."

"Would that we could, O Leader," the newest Ed said sarcastically. "But it isn't by our machinations that we are here."

Riddler looked at Ed who didn't seem to register the conversation around him. He was still sitting, rocking, with his eyes squeezed shut. 

The 2nd Ed, the one with the manic look, sidled up to Riddler. "Our boy's cracking up," he pointed out with glee. "You know he's got no stomach for death. Not like we do."

"Oh?" Riddler regarded this new Ed curiously. "And what are you called?"

This one's grin widened. "I have existed alongside humanity since it's conception. I am the first choice of the powerful and the last resort of the downtrodden. People caution against my use but without me, the world never progresses. What am I?"

Riddler thought on it for a few seconds but it was the green glittered Ed who interjected with the answer. "You are violence." He fixed his eyes on the grinning doppelganger. "Violent fires soon burn themselves out."

'Violent' Ed simply licked his lips. "Not without destroying everything in my path first," he retorted. 

Riddler’s eyes swept between all the assembled Eds as he put it together. “Violence?”’ he named, pointing at him. 

‘Violence’ smirked, arching an eyebrow. “I prefer the name Bloodlust. I think that’s a little bit more encompassing.” 

Riddler resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He pointed at the green-glittered Ed and named him, “Flamboyance.”

“Abysmal, Brother, truly,” he replied with a dramatic sigh and tilt of his head. “I shall bestow upon myself the moniker of ‘Charrrrrrisma.” 

Riddler felt his eye starting to twitch. He faced the one in the corner and called him, “Depression.” The saddest part of Ed did not deign to respond, turning his back on the others to face the wall completely and lay his forehead against it. 

Riddler growled in frustration and whirled on Ed. “Edward -!” he started sternly but was cut off by Ed shooting to his feet and beginning to pace around the room. He was full of manic energy, shaking and mumbling, and ignoring the other aspects of his personality. 

It was becoming increasingly clear to Riddler that Ed was experiencing some kind of psychotic break. His mental state had fragmented and was splitting into the various manifestations of his most dominant personality traits. Well, that was all well and good but how to stop it. 

Riddler followed after Ed. “Snap out of it,” he barked. “Come on, Ed, you’ll lose it if you stay here. How about we go see Oswald?”

“Oswald,” Ed muttered. He was anxiously running his hand through his hair, tugging on the strands. “Just another person I’ve betrayed and harmed. Like all the rest.” 

Bloodlust scoffed in disgust. “There’s always one weak bitch in the group whose not down for murder. Wasn’t it this guy who said that guilt was a useless emotion?”

“It is!” Riddler snapped at him. He was not used to being plagued by so many voices; he began to have a bit more sympathy towards Ed. Though not a whole lot.

“Edward!” He stalked towards his meeker self and snatched his arm, yanking him to spin around. When he saw Riddler’s hand draw back to slap, he squeezed his panicked eyes shut and shouted, “No!”

Riddler froze. In his grip, the Edward Nygma he saw in the mirror was replaced by a new Ed. Small, scrawny with hair smoothed down into place, ears that he’d yet to grow into, thick framed glasses sliding down his nose, all of nine years old. There was panic and fear stamped all over the young Edward’s face and Riddler got a strong flash of himself, a grown man threatening imminent harm, seen through the eyes of the young boy. It was an unpleasant sensation. 

Ed was back on the other side of the room, eyes squeezed shut as he moved around. Riddler released the young Ed who seemed to vanish while other manifestations of himself blinked in and out of view. Ed really was losing it. He didn’t think even Oswald could help him in a situation like this.

Speaking of Oswald… Amidst the many flashes of Edward, a ghostly apparition of Oswald appeared. He looked much the same as when Riddler first hallucinated him. Soaking and covered in seaweed since he had risen from the watery grave that Ed had dropped him into. “You don’t change, do you, Edward?” he taunted. “Still leaving death and destruction in your wake. Isn’t that right, my dear?” 

Riddler’s eyes followed his path to where Kristen Kringle had suddenly appeared. She looked the same as when she was alive except her throat was laced with thick, ugly bruises. “He’s a monster,” she whispered, looking at him with condemning eyes. “A murderer and a psychopath.” 

“No,” Riddler couldn’t stop himself from protesting. “That’s not who I am.” 

“‘Who you are’?” a new voice spoke up. “You haven’t the vaguest idea who you are.” 

He spun to see Lee leaned casually against the wall. Her make up was dark, giving her a deadly appearance. She smirked at him. “How you doing, Ed?” she asked mockingly. 

“Good,” he shot back. “No thanks to you.” 

She chuckled. “I gave you exactly what you wanted,” she said lowly. “You love the darkness in me and that’s what I gave you.” 

“Shut up!” Riddler shouted, his irritation rising with the cacophony that was going on in his splintered mind. 

He needed help, he recognized with clarity. Or he would completely lose his mind. Annoyed, he realized where he needed to go. 

An hour later, he found himself sitting in the office of Arkham’s warden. The man himself was looking at him with an expression of exasperation mixed with skepticism. “I believe we’ve been here before, Mr. Nygma,” the man said tiredly. “I have an institute to run so if you’re just here to waste more of my time -” 

“If you shut your mouth and listen, you’ll find my presence here can be to your benefit,” he replied through gritted teeth. He had the strong urge to bash the man’s head against his desk but he ignored Bloodlust’s impulses and tried to keep that part of himself contained

“Let’s not ignore the elephant in the room,” he continued. “This so-called institute of yours is nothing but a madhouse out of the 18th century, full of gross human rights’ violations and unethical practices. The only reason I’m here is because this is the only place in the city that might treat a psychological break.” 

“You’re remarkably lucid for someone experiencing a mental breakdown,” the warden commented. 

“That’s because I’m a remarkable man,” he replied with all of Charisma’s ego. He heaved a sigh, pushing his glasses up on his nose and continued, “So what I need from you, Warden, is a trained psychologist certified in actual therapuetic techniques. I have no interest in being tossed in here and forgotten like the rest of Arkham’s unwashed masses. I want to get better.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved a roll of money, noticing how the Warden’s eyes lit up at the sight of it. Honestly, some people harbored such simplistic motivations.

“Five grand, for my specialized treatment to be paid out bi-weekly. I’m not wearing that putrid striped uniform and I want free reign of this place, within reason,” he added. “Think we can make that work?” 

The Warden reached over and delicately plucked the roll of money from the desk to shift into his jacket pocket. “I think we can, Mr. Nygma,” he said deftly and rose from his feet. “I’ll retrieve your admission papers and see if we can’t find you something to wear.” He moved around the desk and exited the room. 

Riddler sighed and slumped in the chair. The last place he wanted to be in was this hell hole but he couldn’t think of any other place that could help him. Even if he didn’t receive any psychological help, it might be good to just tune out the rest of the world for a bit. He would think of it as a particularly dismal vacation spot. At least here he was far from those he had hurt. He could forget about Lee for the time being and work on getting his brain back in one piece.


	2. Vacation

The first night of his self-imposed isolation was not bad. Riddler found that when he didn’t have his multiple personalities yammering at him he was still weak and tired from the previous attempt on his life. Idiot Ed had popped his stitches in his mania and the wound burned and throbbed with pain. A proper doctor had stitched him up before sending him to his ‘room’ for the night. 

The Warden made good on his promise. Ed wasn’t to wear the striped Arkham pajamas. He’d been given grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt with his inmate number stitched onto his breast. He was N-616 now, an annoying and loathsome designation. Even though he was roused at the same time as the other inmates, he wasn’t herded like cattle into the mess hall. In fact, when he finally emerged from his cell, long after the wake up summons, he found a plate of palatable food waiting for him in the mess. 

He spent his first week on the ward in his room, only emerging for eating and use of the bathroom. The guards left him to his solitude, which he appreciated. He could not say the same for his errant personalities. 

"Oh - my - GOD," sighed the newest one to appear. This Edward appeared as a teenager and was practically vibrating with pent up energy. "This is SO boring!" he whined. "Why are we just sitting around doing NOTHING?”

Riddler rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, supremely annoyed with the various voices in his head. "Be quiet," he grumbled, rolling onto his side. "I'm trying to rest."

Ed came over and sat on the edge of the bed. "I've counted 36 windows and about 20 doorways since we've been here. This place is massive. If we went exploring, I bet we could find a way outta here in a couple of hours."

"We're here on purpose," Riddler reminded him through gritted teeth. The constant chatter of his many personalities was seriously bothering him. And through it all, Ed remained mostly silent, content to leave him to deal with the verbal torture. He imagined that if he looked in a mirror, he'd find Ed behind him, laughing at his irritation. And that only stoked his anger, feeding into Bloodlust. The most violent part of him was not as annoying as the other parts of his personality. Still, he lurked near with whispered suggestions of brutality. Riddler observed that this part of him was not new. All throughout his life, Ed had ignored the urges to punish those that tormented him. The result of that dismissal was the malevolent madman that shadowed him now, hungry to inflict some pain on someone else. He didn’t know how long he could keep Bloodlust at bay. 

Though he was in control of their body, he marveled at how hard it was to keep himself together, so to speak. It was more than easy to keep Ed in line but the others were more intent on making themselves heard. Charisma took to long recitations of Shakespearean monologues that made Riddler want to strangle his over-dramatic self. _I can’t possibly be that annoying,_ he thought to himself. Though without the dilution of his other selves, it was very likely. He cornered the Warden and demanded to know when his psychologist would be there. He was given a vague answer and told to be patient. 

He wasn’t sleeping well. When the voices in his head weren’t keeping him up, he was tormented by restless dreams and fitful sleep. His sleep was plagued by those he’d hurt in the past. Kristen, Oswald, and especially Lee. Every time he dreamed, he saw her and her enchanting dark eyes, remembered the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her perfume mixing with the sharp copper of blood, theirs, leaking onto the floor as their lives drained away. He remembered looking into her eyes and drawing her close for one last kiss… and then he’d jolt awake. Every time he woke, he was bitter and angry at himself. His newly scarred stomach should have been enough to shake him of his feelings for the Narrows Queen yet she was still infecting his thoughts, like a virus. _This was all Ed’s fault,_he thought bitterly. The sentimental sap would fall in love with anyone who batted her eyes and gave him the time of day. In future, he'd have to teach himself to be more discerning. 

[_‘So much trouble for someone we didn’t even get to fuck’,_ Bloodlust grumbled moodily. Riddler was growing used to ignoring his crass and crude proclamations.]

When his restlessness grew too large to ignore, he walked the ward. The orderlies allowed him these movements, going so far as to unlock gates to let him through. There were a few floors that were absolutely off limits due to some health and safety issues. He figured if he wanted access to them, he'd make a note to confiscate something that would make a suitable lockpick. He was subtly hunting for one when he passed the common area. His roving eye fell on a solitary man, decorated with a high top hat formed out of newspapers. Jervis Tetch latched onto his gaze and rose from his seat, approached the gate that separated them. 

“Well, you certainly are a strange sight to see,” the long-haired man said, drawing close. Riddler slowed down, allowing him to come up beside him, fingers curled through the grate. “Why are you in here with the likes of me?” 

Tetch was the first person, outside of the staff, to address him since his arrival. He found himself receptive to conversation, not the least of which, a little wordplay. He regarded the shorter man coolly and decided on honesty. He did not see any effort for subterfuge. “Simple, sir. I come here by choice. For I am besieged by many a voice. I needed a place to clear my brain. I could think of no better place than a house of the insane.” 

Tetch’s eyes narrowed at his explanation and he nodded slightly. “You’re rumored to be a man of the cerebral persuasion. Surely, you could think of a more suitable vacation.” His tone was a mix of mocking and amusement. “But my curiosity grows, as you stroll with such ease. Why am I in the cage while you roam as you please?” 

Riddler arched an eyebrow and gave him a smirk of faked apology. “Because, Mr. Tetch, you are not the same as me. Though we’re in here together, I’m just a little more...free.” He waved a dismissive hand. “As much as one can be.”

The man in the top hat scoffed. “You are a welcome change from the usual, Mr. Nygma. Not quite a madman but one of charisma.” 

Riddler appreciated the compliment and his inner self practically preened. “Those are kind words, Tetch, but some are a mistake. I’m quite the madman. Don’t forget that - for your sake.” He nodded politely before continuing on his way. He heard Charisma’s voice sounding in his head. “Do you think he’d make us a paper bowler if we asked?”

He requested drugs from the medical station - sleeping pills and anti-psychotics. They were given with the leniency typical of those who didn’t care whether they kept their jobs or not. Lucky for him. He swallowed them carelessly and confined himself to his room with only his personalities to keep him company. He conversed with them with fatigued abandon. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure if he was speaking in his head or speaking out loud. He was unraveling, in a way, until he was joined by another, decidedly realer person. 

The woman who entered his cell was a petite blonde, in a black pencil skirt, a red blouse, and a white doctor’s coat. He inspected her face closely. Her youth could not be belied by the makeup she wore; she looked like a teenager. 

“Who’re you?” he asked groggily as he rolled over to face her. 

The woman straightened to her full, unimpressive height, and adjusted the oval framed glasses on her face. “Nice to see you’re awake, Mr. Nygma. I’m your psychiatrist, Dr. Harleen Quinzel.” 

“You?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. “What, did you graduate this morning?” 

She gave him a tight smile. “I am newly graduated, yes, but not as fresh as this morning, I’m afraid.” 

“Listen, kid,” he said, feeling himself begin to rouse. He came here for help and this was what they offered him? What an insult. “I think I need someone a bit more experienced, not a neophyte fresh out the classroom. Why don’t you run along and find me someone grown.” 

“You’ve got me, Mr. Nygma,” she said in a clipped tone. She had the measured tone of someone regulating exactly what they’d say and how they’d say it. That was vaguely interesting. “I’ve been informed of your… arrangement with the Warden. Far be it from me to question him but I was the only one to apply to this position so unfortunately, you’re stuck with me.” He watched her retrieve a chair was its place against the wall, center it in front of him, and take a seat, one leg crossed over the other. His eyes flicked to the closed door and back to her. 

“Harleen Quinzel,” he repeated, dancing the four syllables across his tongue. “That can’t be your real name. It sounds like a stage moniker.” 

“It’s my real name," she assured. "Named after my grandfather Harlan, and Quinzel’s an old Jewish name my family refused to discard.” 

“You’re Jewish?” he asked, taking in her blonde hair and blue eyes. 

“Depends on who you ask,” she replied with a shrug. “Some would say not since my father married a _shiksa_ whose to blame for my coloring.” Her eyes roamed over him. “Do you want to interrogate me some more or do you want to tell me why you’re here?” 

“Shouldn’t you already know that?” he challenged her. 

She took a quick glance at the clipboard in her hand. “Oh, I have your information here. Subject E. Nygma is confined here voluntarily while he deals with…” Her finger traced along the page. “Auditory and visual hallucinations, multiple personality disorder, and a profound lack of empathy.” 

“It says profound there?” 

“Would that be inaccurate?” 

“I’d say it’s a bit of an exaggeration.” He thought of the guilt that wracked him over what he’d done to Lee. “An unfair exaggeration,” he added. 

“Would you like to give me a more accurate picture?” Dr. Quinzel asked as she folded her hands and leaned towards him. 

He suddenly found himself annoyed by her. Bloodlust reared his head and Riddler, vulnerable from fatigue and drugs, let him at her. 

“I could paint you many a picture, Dr. Quin_zel_,” he said with a licentious grin. “They forgot to add genius sociopath with a penchant for killing those that get in my way.” 

“Was Kristen Kringle in your way?” she asked, eyeing him evenly. 

“No, she was just fun. You get a taste for something and you just start to crave it all the time. Do you know what that’s like, Doc? To _crave_?”

“I’m hoping you’ll tell me. When you’re ready to, of course. I don’t think we’re quite at that point yet.” She nodded to herself and rose to her feet.

Bloodlust sprang to a standing position, easily towering over her. She was so small, he noticed. Probably only 5’5, definitely not more than 120 lbs. How easy it’d be to lift her off her feet, trap her in his grasp, as Kristen Kringle had been. 

For her part, she kept still, regarding him with a coolness in her eyes. “Am I supposed to be frightened?” Quinzel asked, arching one eyebrow. 

“If you had good sense, you would be. I’ve already killed one woman,” he reminded her. “Without the use of a weapon, I may add.” 

“Right,” she confirmed with a nod. “A bookish young woman who already suffered through one abusive relationship. As opposed to someone like me…” 

Bloodlust had let his guard down. And so he didn’t react in time when she drew back one hand and struck him rather hard with her forearm. She was stronger than her little body suggested. He dropped to his knees, his lip immediately splitting and filling his mouth with blood. He looked up and she was looking down on him with the critical eye reserved for scientists studying their subjects. “I may be newly graduated but Gotham is not new to me. For one, I know that things aren’t always as they appear. You’d do well to remember the same, Mr. Nygma.” 

He spat his blood on the floor and gave her a red-tinged smile. “Sound advice, Dr. Quinzel. Perhaps you’ll be more fun than I could imagine.” 

For the first time, she gave him a genuine smile. “Perhaps so. We shall see, in time. Have a good day, Mr. Nygma.” She left his room with her nose pointed primly in the air. 

Once she’d gone, Bloodlust relinquished his hold and Riddler stumbled back to the bed, sucking down the blood that was spreading in his mouth. Quinzel was an interesting one. She might prove interesting enough to drag his thoughts from the Queen of the Narrows. And maybe, she could even provide some help to him though he doubted such a thing was possible. Still, he collapsed into sleep, intrigued by the mysteries that Arkham could provide him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was initially a little short but who should pop up but the fabulous Mr. Tetch! I've been rewatching S3 and becoming more enamored with Tetch. (A separate Tetch-centered fic may be in the works.) He's surprisingly fun and I can see a friendship - maybe more - developing between him and Ed. It was my first time writing him and though he may seem a little intimidating, I think I'm getting a handle on things. 
> 
> As for Harleen, I'm planning interesting things with her that will take some time to develop. Bear with me! And I hope you're enjoying the ride. :)


	3. Coming To Terms

Three days would pass before he saw Dr. Quinzel again. She breezed into his room, brazen as anything, while he sat cross-legged on his bed, idly folding small origami figures. He was still sporting a small bruise on his jaw and so was not overly pleased to see her. 

“It’s impolite to enter a room without knocking,” he commented. 

She raised an eyebrow, watching him for a moment before she nodded. “You’re right. I apologize.” She took a seat and he sat up to face her. They were mere feet apart and he couldn’t stop focusing on how young she looked. 

“How old are you?” he asked brusquely. 

She smiled humorlessly. “Why, Mr. Nygma, it’s impolite to ask that of a woman. But if you must know, I’m twenty-two.” 

“You really must have just graduated. What made you come to Gotham, Doctor?” 

“That’s easy. I was born in this city but my parents left when I was four. I’m simply returning to the place of my birth. Plus I needed a job. I have some student loans to pay off.” 

“I see,” he said, contemplating her answers. If she was there to psychoanalyze him then he would do the same. 

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Mr. Nygma,” she said, redirecting. “Why would you admit yourself into this place?” 

“I needed help,” he answered with a shrug.

“Yes, it says you admitted yourself in the midst of a psychotic breakdown. Most people aren’t lucid enough to know when they’re experiencing a mental trauma.” 

“I’m not most people,” he said snarkily and she smiled. 

“Yes, it seems that much is apparent. The staff says you came in with a fairly fresh stab wound to the abdomen. It seems you were attacked. Do you remember that incident and do you believe it triggered your breakdown?” 

"I don't want to talk about that," he answered, petulant.

"Okay," she affirmed briskly. "We can revisit it when you feel like elaborating. Let's talk about your psychotic episode. It's said you suffer from multiple personalities. How many personalities are in there?"

He sighed roughly, running an agitated hand through his hair. He hated to discuss himself with this stranger but she was supposed to help him and freezing her out would do him no good. 

"Usually, just two. Regular Ed and me. The night I came here there were more. Three. Or four. Could be more."

Quinzel scribbled a quick note. "So you are not 'regular' Ed," she confirmed. "Who are you?"

"I'm the Riddler," he answered gloomily, without his usual verve.

"You sound sad," she observed. "Why?"

"Because I don't feel like myself," he complained. "Between the drugs and my personalities running rampant, I feel like a poor shadow of my former self."

"You mean this man?" She shuffled through her papers and produced a newspaper, tilting it towards him. The front page had his portrait, posed dramatically, sword in hand. The headline read, _‘Riddler Crashes Gotham Opera, Kills Two’_.

He reached for the paper, a grin already spreading on his face but Quinzel kept it out of his reach. Instead, she turned it back to herself and began to read: “The Gotham Opera’s opening showing of Hamlet was marred by mayhem with the appearance of the criminal Riddler. The madman took the stage and issued a threat to the upper echelon of Gotham society. Upon deliverance of his message, he slew the actor playing the Prince of Denmark with a single stab wound to the heart, after murdering the ghost of Hamlet’s father in an equally bizarre and cruel twist of violence.” She lowered the paper and regarded him curiously. “You miss being that man?” 

“All due respect, Doctor, if you’d seen that hack’s act, you might have marched on stage and stabbed him yourself.” 

She didn’t respond to his attempt at levity. Instead she asked, “If you were a stranger, reading that account, what would you think of the man in that story?” 

“I’d think him a flamboyant and infinitely interesting character with a penchant for the dramatic and a flair for the audacious."

“I see,” Quinzel replied. “I’d think something different. This article details the crime spree of an unrepentant murderer, someone who took eight lives in the span of a few short weeks.” She met his eyes with her own piercing blue gaze. “Why would anyone want to be that man?” she questioned softly. 

His expression darkened, he stretched out his legs, placing his feet on the floor and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Quinzel drew back slightly and he could see he’d put her on guard. Good. 

“_That man_,” he said pointedly. “Terrorized Gotham. Evaded an entire police force. And made contact with an organization with an incredible arc of power. He was a man people regarded with fear and respect.” 

“Wouldn’t you rather be loved?” she interjected. 

He let out a rude snort of incredulity. “Oh boy, you’re as idiotic as -” He broke off suddenly. 

“As who?” she asked, curious. 

He refused to verbalize the thought but she’d reminded him of Lee in that moment with all her do-gooder nonsense talk. But he was not yet ready to talk about her. 

When it became obvious he wouldn’t comment, she leaned back in her seat, releasing a soft breath. “Tell me about the other personalities. Do they also have names?” 

He copied her and took a deep breath before continuing. “Yes. Depression. Charisma. And Bloodlust.” He shot her a dry smile. “He’s the one you clocked the other day. Though I must say you hit harder than I’d expect. I wonder how the Warden would feel to know you’re abusing patients upon first meet?” 

She tilted her head and met his eyes while she smiled knowingly. “You and I both know that little hit is not the worst to happen at Arkham. This place has a reputation, as much as the city does. Besides, if anyone asks, I was just defending myself from an especially aggressive patient.” A pause then, “Can I talk to Bloodlust? Are you able to switch at will?” Her tone suggested her morbid curiosity and even though he did not enjoy the exposing, it was nice to have someone interested in his mind. 

“It’s not...not a conscious thing,” he said, frowning slightly. “It just happens. When it was just me, it was a verbal trigger. But with these new guys...I think it’s more an emotional thing now.” He rolled his eyes as the realization came to him. Of course, Ed’s mind wasn’t enough to keep it together. Now, the slightest sway of emotion from him would shift his whole being around. 

“You seem annoyed at yourself.” 

“I’m annoyed at _Ed_. The dope can’t even keep his own mind together.” 

“Don’t you mean _you_ can’t keep _your_ mind together? You may see yourself as separate but you are the same person.” 

“Not exactly, Doctor,” he responded darkly. 

“Riddler,” she said patiently. “Count how many people are in this room.” 

Bloodlust appeared at his back, gnashing his teeth. “I’m getting sick of this know-it-all bitch,” he growled. “She thinks she can diagnose us? _US?!_ She’s known us for all of six minutes.” 

“You’re pissing me off,” he said to her lowly. 

“That’s an unfortunate side effect of therapy,” she said nonchalantly with a shrug. “Confronting emotions and thoughts you don’t want to is always an uncomfortable experience. But the only way to heal is to deal with the damage of the past.” 

“You think I can be healed?” he asked. Though he feigned a tone of sarcasm, he was sincerely invested in her answer. 

“We all can,” she answered. “It’s all about the choices one makes.” She glanced at the watch on her wrist. “I think we can finish up here. I have a point to start from, which is good. That’ll help me map out the most effective therapy for you. I’ll be regulating your medication and making sure you get things that will help you. There are other steps involved but I have to develop and fine-tune those before I reveal them to you. The intended goal is to understand why your perception of your personalities have shifted so and what we can do to return it to a more healthy point.”

Riddler was surprised at her explanation. It was more professional than he expected from her. He grew annoyed at himself for his short-sightedness. He felt like Bloodlust was dulling his senses, making it so he thought less of his ‘opponents’. He was too eager to exact his own revenge to see that Lee had anticipated his moves and made her own accordingly. He could still remember the shock of surprise, the brilliant lance of pain, as she drove her knife into him, defending herself and trying to cut him down. He hadn’t thought her a threat. Even after she’d put a bullet in Sofia’s head, he’d still underestimated her. 

He felt like a fool. 

If she had killed him...it would have only been right. 

And right now, he was repeating a pattern. Maybe it was Quinzel’s youthful, feminine appearance that made him doubt her ability to read him. It didn’t escape him that here he was, mentally injured, and seeking the help of a woman, once again. But...if he wanted to get better, he needed to get his head out of his ass and admit the help he was being offered. 

He sighed roughly. Clarity was an annoying thing, wasn’t it?

"Okay," he acquiesced, lowering his head. “I’ll...follow your lead, Doc.”

They set up a tentative schedule: therapy three days a week. Lots of talking and soul searching to get the root of his problems. He was absolutely _thrilled_ about confronting those demons. 

In the meantime, he made a point to get out of his room more. His drugs were making him oddly pliant, so he didn’t mind going amongst his fellow inmates. Not much had changed. Helzinger and a few other familiar faces drifted by to say hello. It was the same shrieking, chaotic madhouse as it was the first time he was incarcerated. The only difference was his new potential friend. 

He found Jervis Tetch in the ‘rec room’ seated before a chessboard focused completely on his task of decorating the white pieces with red painted designs. Riddler observed him for a brief moment before he walked over. 

Tetch’s eyes narrowed before he glanced up. Upon spotting Riddler, a polite smile came to his face. “Ah, Mr. Nygma. What a pleasant surprise. Would you care to sit?” 

He complied, sliding into the seat across from Tetch. His eyes glanced over the chess pieces and he marveled at the complete set. One would assume a maniac would have lost or eaten some of the pieces. The black were untouched but the white were painted with polka dots, zigzags, and curls in bloody red. 

“Are you a player as well as a painter, Mr. Tetch?” 

“I play,” he replied. “Though I’m sure not as well as you. Weren’t the papers calling you the Chess Killer for a short time?” 

Riddler grimaced lightly. “A simple miscommunication borne from overworked writers. They got it right in the end. So, a game?” 

Tetch blew on the Queen piece, attempting to dry faster the crown he’d painted her. When he set her down, he met Riddler’s eyes with a quiet challenge. “Shall we begin?” 

The game began as most matches do, with the advancement of the pawns. Instinctively, Riddler almost reached out for a stop clock that was not there. All the same, he counted the seconds between moves in his head. Thirty seconds was the most time he was willing to give his opponent to make his move. 

“Did you know that chess originated in India over 1,500 years ago?” he said conversationally as he moved his rook into position. “Save for the advent of the Queen and a few move adjustments, it’s remained largely the same as when it was invented.”  
Tetch hadn’t known that in fact. Still, he scoffed lightly. “What arrogance, to have the King rule the board on his lonesome. Everyone knows the Queen is the strongest piece.” 

“The King is the most important though,” he pointed out. “It can’t also be a powerful mover or else it’d never be checked.” 

“Just as well,” Tetch answered with a shrug. “They should protect each other.” His voice was oddly reverent as he gently brushed across his Queen piece. Along with painting her crown red, he’d stylized her with card suits, a diamond, a heart, a spade, a club, all dripping red. 

Riddler watched him carefully before asking, “Why are you here, Mr. Tetch? Last I heard you were terrorizing Gotham with the likes of Jonathan Crane and Jerome Valeska.”

Tetch snickered as he moved a new piece. “A delightful time!” he commented. “With the three of us in our prime. But Mr. Crane’s gone like the wind, while Valeska’s six feet under. The cops pinned me down and returned me here, so no wonder. Then that Jeremiah emerged, a shocking new villian. Lacking Jerome’s charm with a nature decidedly more reptillian. Jerome may have been uncouth but at least he was a team player. Unlike his brother whose a most unrepentant slayer. So, I’m returned here to wait and bide my time. I’m sure it won’t be long until I’m back to my crimes.” 

Riddler listened, his attention caught, while he casually moved a piece into place. “You preferred the first brother over the other?” 

Tetch tilted his head, surveying the board. “A man can be judged by the company he keeps. If he surrounds himself with liars then he’s probably a sneak. An anarchist is one thing. He wants only to destroy. But Jeremiah’s schemes were of a different ploy. I didn’t care for his brand of madness. So I removed myself and now I wait, aimless.” 

Riddler could sympathize with that. “Oddly enough, I understand your pains. Sometimes one must lay low in order to see gains. As I’ve done, leading you to show your neck. My dear Mr. Tetch, I have you in check.” 

Tetch glared at the board and rolled his eyes before he tipped over his Queen. “And so the Queen is slain.” He looked back at Riddler, folded his hands. “Shall we play again?” 

The drugs he took didn’t dull his senses so much as they softened some of his edges. He was not his boisterous self but that was okay. His injury had slowed him down but the pain of the wound was beginning to fade, siphoned off by Dr. Quinzel’s prescribed painkillers. She had him taking antidepressants along with an occasional sleeping pill. He did not feel specifically _better_. Just calmer. 

Quinzel commented on his mood the next time she saw him for a session.  
“There’s some color in your face,” she observed. “Are you still in some pain?”

“A little,” he admitted. “But it’s becoming duller.” 

“Do you want to tell me how you got that wound?” she asked quietly. 

He sighed a little and said, “I was stabbed by a woman. Someone I cared for. Who I thought cared for me.” 

“You were betrayed,” she said sympathetically. 

Riddler gave her a sardonic smile. “This is Gotham, after all. Every relationship is on a path to an eventual point of betrayal.” 

“Have all your relationships ended in betrayal?” 

“Most of them,” he admitted. “The woman who stabbed me did it to defend herself. She was in the right but I didn’t see it coming. My best friend killed the woman I loved and froze me in a block of ice. I shot him and dumped in the river to die. That’s just the way relationships go in Gotham.” 

“Do you believe that’s an inevitability?” 

“It feels like that sometimes.” 

“I wouldn’t believe that a person like you believes in ‘the inevitable’,” she said bluntly. She was resting her chin in one hand and surveying him with that particularly analytical look of hers. “You seem more like one who states what the future will be. A shaper of your own destiny.” 

He merely blinked at such a bold proclamation. Surely it was true but in a place like Arkham such facts could be easily glossed over. 

Quinzel switched topics. “Tell me some of your hobbies. Outside of your criminal activities, what do you do for fun?” 

He had to think about it. He was always plotting something. From his initial release from Arkham, he’d quickly rose from the Mayor’s Chief of Staff to a criminal villain worth his own salt in the undergrounds of Gotham. He did not allow many nights for frivolity. 

“I enjoy any and all riddles, puzzles, crosswords, and word games. I read up on a lot of different subjects, art history, philosophy, religious studies, and more of the like. I also play the piano. I like singing. And acting.” 

“Have you traveled much?” she asked. 

“Not really,” he admitted. “I lived in three places before settling in Gotham. They were the type of places one tries to escape from, not revisit.” 

She made a careful note. “Do you exercise?” 

He shrugged. “Not as much as I could. But I’m a good cook and I eat right.” 

“Forgive me if this is intrusive but… how often do you have sex?” 

Riddler adjusted his glasses and looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Why, Doctor, are you interested because you’re offering? That’s quite kind but I’ve kind of sworn off female doctors for a while.”

She rolled her eyes a little and gave him a patient smile. “Of course not. I’m merely trying to get a sense of your physicality. Obviously, mental pursuits are very important to you but you’re also neglecting your bodily needs as well.” 

“You think I need to be having more sex? That’s quite the diagnosis.” 

“What I mean to say is such physical releases are good for the body. Sexually speaking, an orgasm releases serotonnin, a lack of which can contribute to levels of depression, which I’m sure you already know.” 

“I’m aware of my own brain chemistry, yes,” he snapped. 

“Then when’s the last time you had sex?” 

He gaped at her audacity but at the same time, his mind was going back to the last time he’d laid with a woman. Poor, doomed Isabella so many months ago. Such a short fated meeting, he’d only gotten to be with her once in that way. Kristen hadn’t lasted any longer. “My track record with women hasn’t been great.” 

“What about a man?” 

He blinked, startled. “Excuse me?” 

“Before, you said you’d sworn off ‘female doctors’. I’m going to assume the woman who stabbed you was a doctor. And if it were just about medical personnel then you wouldn’t have added on female. So…?” 

“I’m not -” He tried not to sputter and failed. “I’m not gay. At least, I don’t think I am. I’ve never...been with a man.” 

“Did you ever want to?” 

That was a tricky question. His relationships with other men had never been a source of pride. His father cast a long shadow over his entire childhood. His adolescence had been spent avoiding meat-headed bullies who he could think circles around but to teenagers, the hierarchy of the land is determined by physical prowess, of which he had always lacked. Even as an adult, he’d encountered the same type of men in his workplace, the kind who got away with throwing their weight around and now they do so without consequence. But the few men that didn’t fit that stifling, hypermasculine mold were the ones that stood out most in his mind.

Jim Gordon had been an interesting addition to the city. Ed kept a close eye on him in his early days and it was clear that Gordon was the type of cop that should be commonplace. Brave, bold, and pure of heart. Of course, such things can become tiresome. Jim’s view was simplistic and very much in line with his ‘White Knight’ mode of thinking. Still, he remembered thinking of him with something like a schoolboy crush. He had it in his head that Jim was not a good kisser. He just looked too uptight for it. 

Lucius Fox was another rarified player. It helped that their very first interaction culminated in Lucius easily solving his riddle. When next they met on the playing field, Lucius had bested him again in the riddle game, and so he crowned him ‘the second smartest man in Gotham’. He was definitely a man of interest. Intelligent, cultured, sweetly nonviolent and rather pointedly, himself. As he thought about it, he realized there was no one quite like Lucius Fox. And he thought he’d be a fine kisser - not that he’d ever get to find out. 

And lastly Oswald. His best friend was a man like him. The kind that you overlooked and underestimated. The dangerous sort that you should not leave to their own devices. Yes, they had both betrayed the other in different ways but what did any of that matter? That had also saved each other more than any one else had. They were best friends but could he really look at Oswald and see more than that? Oswald loved him, he knew that much. And he loved him too, in his own. But to be _with_ him? 

He had been silent too long. Quinzel cleared her throat delicately and said, “You don’t have to answer right now. Think on it if you like.” 

She ended her session shortly after and Riddler was left with a new set of questions to contemplate.


	4. The Sneak's Agenda

Riddler awoke with the morning bell, feeling somewhat strange. He didn't really remember going to bed. That odd feeling only grew when he threw aside his sheets and put his feet on the floor. His socks were soaked through. Grimacing lightly, he stripped off one of the wet garments, giving it a tentative sniff. He got only the light scent of grass. 

He suppressed an annoyed growl, pressing his fingers into his closed eyes. "Which one of you is responsible for this?" he muttered. 

When he lowered his hands, his other selves had materialized. There were four of them; his teenage looking self had appeared with the others. He stood behind Bloodlust, looking as nonchalant as he could. 

Clearly the guilty one. 

“What’d you do?” he questioned. “Walk around in the showers?” 

His young self grinned sneakily. “_No._ Check your hands.” 

Riddler quickly looked at his palms, seeing nothing, then flipped over his hands. The crescents of his fingernails with grimy with… He brought his fingers up to his eye level. “Is this dirt? Have I been digging?” His eyes snapped back to the teenager. “You went _outside_?”

Ed giggled, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was very obviously happy to be ‘caught’. “I _told_ you this place could be broken out of! It wasn’t even hard!” 

Riddler glowered at having to deal with this nonsense immediately on waking. “And I told _you_ that we were here _on purpose_, for a _reason_.”

“Go easy on yourself,” Bloodlust interjected, grinning at his ‘cleverness’. He glanced at the kid. “So, Eddie, how’d you do it? Air vents?

Eddie’s slick grin was back. “I am your salvation, your ticket to freedom from these walls. But to have me is forbidden and so I stay hidden. _Where_ am I?”

Riddler ran his hand through his hair quickly, trying to see if anything was hidden under his locks. The sides had started to grow back but there still wasn’t much to conceal something. He quickly ran his hands over his neck, down his chest, his waist, his legs, and finally, he pulled off his last sock. Something jabbed him in the ankle and he carefully unfolded the wet cloth and revealed two pieces of wire, about three inches long, paper clips that had been unbent. He couldn’t even remember swiping them. He looked up, the searching expression in his eyes, and Bloodlust’s grin widened. 

“The kiddo pulled a fast one,” he commented, looking at their youngest self with admiration. “Not bad.” 

Eddie smiled with pride. 

Riddler’s eyes raked over Eddie, trying to take the measure of this newest addition. He was probably around fifteen, maybe sixteen, dressed in the same nerdy, button-down style Ed used to favor. He had not fully ‘formed’ himself at that age - Ed was still Ed majority of the time - but he had a sense of Eddie all the same. 

Ed had been a precocious child, to no one's surprise. He had excelled in his classes and been easily bored. His intellectual advancement had been ignored by his blue collar father and he'd been punished by school yard bullies near constantly. He spent his adolescence in books, absorbing and storing knowledge, gaining skills and making a database out of his brain. He idolized characters like Sherlock Holmes and Tony Stark and wanted to be like the genius success stories he read. 

Eddie's presence didn't surprise Riddler. He was the manifestation of all of Ed's childhood ambition - the social awkward boy he'd been, with no friends, little parental intervention, ignored and lonely. He'd thrown himself into expanding his own mind. It should come as no surprise that he wouldn't be content to sit, rotting away inside Arkham.

He took a steadying breath, surveying the room. Depression sat in the corner, ignoring them while Charisma stood near the window, face pointed towards the bars. Riddler imagined he was envious of Eddie getting to go outside. 

"If we're caught, we could end up thrown into solitary. Or mauled by a guard dog. Or shot."

"We're already in solitary," Eddie snapped. When Riddler shot him an annoyed glare, he immediately dropped his gaze and looked away. 

"Hey now," Bloodlust intervened again. "Why don't you congratulate the kid? He did something none of the rest of us have."

Eddie's raised his eyes again, glaring his defiance. 

"In fact," Bloodlust continued. He took a slow step forward and Riddler tensed slightly. "I think he did a damn good job of driving the Ed suit. Seems to me like he could have some more time at the wheel. We _all_ could," he added with a glance at Charisma, trying to lure him on to their side. 

Riddler rose to a standing position, meeting himself head on. He regarded him silently while his other self sized him up. Bloodlust was dressed messily. He wore Riddler's usual suit but the tie was loosened, the shirt untucked, the jacket artfully sliced to look cool. His dark eyes were narrowed, rarely shifting from their focus in front of him. 

Riddler spoke calmly. "This is my body," he said simply. "You'd do well to remember that."

Bloodlust smirked. "Or what?" he challenged, laughing. "You'll kill yourself?" He glanced at Eddie. "Didn't you already try that one, kid?" Bloodlust sneered at the three of them. "As far as I care, you can all drop dead. I'd prefer _no one_ gets to be Ed if I have to be caged."

The effect of his words were instantaneous. Charisma shot him a cool look. "I rather like being alive," he said with a pretentious sniff. 

"Me too," Eddie said, moving away from him. His comment had clearly struck a nerve for he moved away to join Depression in the corner. 

"You could never be the only Ed," said the Riddler. "You're too damn short sighted. You can't strategize. You're too quick to alienate your allies. You're only good for instances of impulse. Other than that, you're weaker than all of us, even little Eddie."

The corner of Bloodlust's mouth twitched. He leaned in close to Riddler who refused to back up an inch. "I'm going to make you sorry you said that."

Before he could respond to the threat, a knock sounded on his door which opened to reveal Doctor Quinzel. 

"Good morning," she called out cheerily. His other selves disappeared with her entrance. 

"Good -" He cleared his throat and forced out, "Good morning." 

The doctor was dressed differently. Instead of her usual professional veneer, she was dressed down in a loose fitting grey tracksuit. Instead of her bun, her blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail. Without her usual heeled shoes, she was even shorter than normal. Though she still wore her usual makeup, she looked like she could be a high school cheerleader. In her arms, she held a folded sweatshirt and a pair of sneakers and socks.

“A different environment today,” she declared. “I’ve gotten clearance from the warden to allow you some physical activity. I think it can be beneficial for your overall wellbeing and mood. If you want to grab something to eat, we can head out into the yard together.” 

Riddler was grateful something else to focus on. “Forget breakfast. Let’s just go now.” 

“Oh?” She looked quietly pleased. “Well, if you’re sure. Dress quickly.” 

She stepped out and Riddler pulled on the hoodie and zipped it up. He slipped on the socks and pushed his feet into the sneakers Quinzel had given him, gratified to feel the hard sole under his foot, so unlike the soft hospital brand slippers the patients were made to wear. The waiting Quinzel led him outside, an armed guard at their backs.

Riddler was eager to breathe some fresh air. The weather was pleasant but he could feel the crispness in the air. He drew his hood over his head. 

Nearby, Quinzel was bent over, fingers pointed towards her toes. “You should stretch,” she advised. “You don’t want to pull a muscle.” 

He did a halfhearted imitation of his stretches until she was ready to begin. She passed him a bottle of water before beginning. “Pace yourself and don’t push yourself unnecessarily. We’re going to go at a steady jog for thirty minutes. Drink when you want. Slow down when you need.” With that, she nodded and started off. 

He immediately he set off after her and maintained a steady stride at her side. He couldn’t see much beyond the looming facade of the Arkham building but still it was nice not to be stuck in a cage. He took a swallow of water and continued following Quinzel’s path. 

She jogged next to him with about two feet of distance between them. His eyes flicked to the guard towers and their stationed shooters. He could feel the sights of several guns trained on him, ready to take him down if he dared make a break for it. He wondered how Eddie how gotten in and out without detection. 

“Are you sleeping any better?” Quinzel asked. 

He paused for a moment and, wanting to lie, but deciding against it. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I think I’m sleeping but...I feel like I’m losing time.” 

“Why do you feel that way?” 

He released a sigh.”I’ll tell you later.” 

“Okay,” she conceded. 

He needed to tell her about Eddie breaking free. Later though when they were inside and more situated. 

After ten minutes, they slowed to a brief walk. As they moved, she asked, “Any sign of Ed yet?” 

“None,” he answered. “Might not be so bad if I didn’t have the Peanut Gallery over my shoulder.” 

“Are the other personalities pestering you?” 

“You could certainly say so.” 

She took a thoughtful sip of water but didn’t continue her line of questioning. He followed her lead, gulped more water, and picked up the pace when she resumed the job. About halfway through the second set, Riddler started to develop a stitch in his side. He pushed on and ignored it but his breathing was slowly starting to become ragged. He observed the doctor and saw no change in her breathing or overall energy levels. She was in particularly good shape, he noted. He wondered if she studied some martial art. She seemed dedicated to maintaining a balance between her physical and mental prowess. 

He was breathing heavily by the second time they slowed to walking speed. 

“In through the nose, out through the mouth,” Quinzel instructed. “Deep breaths will eventually slow you down and help you regain your wind.” 

He did as she said and eventually, he caught his breath, though he was starting to feel oddly dizzy. He seemed to be in worse shape than he was giving himself credit for. Or maybe he should taken the time to eat something. Regardless, he attempted to ignore the dizziness in his mind and the upset in his stomach and instead stay hydrated and focused on the path ahead of him. 

By the time they finished, he was embarassingly dizzy. He stumbled next to the psychiatrist as she aimed toward an unused hallway. Doctor Quinzel led him down a back corridor, an unfamiliar route that he had not traveled often enough to remember. There were no inmates or staff members to pass as they walked, accompanied only by the soft sounds of their footsteps. He knew that parts of Arkham had been sealed off and made inaccessible. He wondered if Eddie was working on a way into those restricted areas. 

Quinzel didn’t bother to take him into any of the cells that lined the halls. Instead, she merely walked to the middle of the hallway, smoothed down her clothes, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Ed’s eyes followed her before he copied her movements, dropped to the floor with a groan. He finished off the last of his water and crushed the bottle. Then his eyes found hers. “What now, Doctor?” Now that he stopped moving, he felt his body going light and comfortable.

Quinzel retrieved a pen light and shone it into his eyes briefly, checking their dilation. Then she sat back and regarded him carefully. “Now, I’m ready to listen to whoever wants to talk.” 

He felt within him a strange and unfamiliar willingness to talk. But when he spoke, it wasn’t him ejecting the words. 

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” Charisma declared, eyes glittering. “It’s a joy to finally meet you, Miss Quinzel.” 

“No mistaking you,” she commented. “You must be the one dubbed Charisma.” 

He shot her a friendly grin. “I think you’ll find this side of me more pleasant than my others. Really, they can be such brutes.” 

“Riddler says you all have been pestering him.” 

“Not me! That’s mostly Bloodlust; he’ll pick a fight with anyone. And Eddie who never likes to sit still though I can’t really blame the kid. This place is certainly lacking for stimuli, wouldn’t you say, Doctor?”

“Eddie?” She started writing new notes. “You say he’s a kid? How old?” 

“About fifteen. He’s pretty much Ed at that age.” Charisma skewered her with his gaze. He looked at once focused and gently amused. “Some people become adults and leave behind their childhood selves. Others carry those selves with them into the future.”

Harleen quietly agreed with him. Since her arrival in Gotham and her posting at the asylum, she worked hard to learn as much as she could, about the city and about her patient and how they intertwined with each other. It was easy to gather all the articles about the Riddler and his rise to crime. They painted a complex picture of a genius villian with the insatiable need for performative actions and a disregard for the laws of others. She learned of his crimes and saw a focus on a very particular code of self-formed ethics. She would never say this to him but his mind really was a fascinating labyrinth. 

“How are you adjusting to your time here?” she asked Charisma. 

He gave an affable smile though there was a dark look in his eyes. “It’s dreadful, Doctor. I do not care for such isolation and the other inmates leave a bit to be desired in terms of conversation partners.” 

“You’ve been seen spending time with Jervis Tetch,” she pointed out. “Would you consider him a friend?” 

Charisma tilted his head and gave a careless shrug. “Well, he’s not raving mad like some of the others. And his rhyming is amusing. Also, he’s well-mannered and there’s not enough of that going around.” 

Quinzel gave a light chuckle, writing a note then observed, “It’s quite interesting to me that you make a effort to practice politeness but you also don’t hesitate to kill a person who stands in your way. Do you consider that hypocritical at all?” 

Charisma’s expression was frozen somewhere between amused and angry. She watched him closely as his eyes darted back and forth quickly and when he focused on her again, he simply smirked and said, “Do I contradict myself? Well then, I contradict myself. I am vast. I contain multitudes.” 

She nodded and took a deep breath, pointedly looking at him to do the same. After a moment he copied her and then spoke in a level voice, “How is the city treating you, Doctor?” 

She was surprised by the change in topic but answered nonetheless. “Quite well. I’ve been enjoying myself.” 

“Have you made many friends?”

“A few. People in my building, a couple of regulars at the diner, some girls I met in the park. It’s been okay.” 

He regarded her with a roving eye. “You’re rather in shape. Do you practice any martial art?” 

The doctor grinned. “No, that’s not me. I’m just naturally athletic. Have been since I was a kid.”

“That must have been nice,” he commented. “We were hopeless as a kid. Weak mostly with no real interest in anything athletic.” 

“But I’m sure you were brilliant.” 

“Well, of course, that,” Charisma said snobbishly. “But no one cared about that when we were growing up.”

Her eyes softened slightly. “Your parents didn’t encourage you?” 

“Ed’s mother did,” he admitted. “But she died when he was twelve.” 

Quinzel made a note without looking down at her paper. “How did she die?” 

“Cancer. Lung cancer. She went fast.” 

“And how was it growing up with just your dad?” 

Charisma’s eyes were narrowed, his expression still, as he spoke to her. He said, “About as awful as you could expect. He was a mean old drunk bastard who never had a nice word to say about anything to anyone. He was always yelling and throwing stuff around. He never hit Mom with his hands but...he stressed her out enough without having to. After she died, he just shut down. Didn’t want to raise me, couldn’t stand the sight of me. It was always tense in the house.” 

“What did your father do for work?” she asked softly. 

“Construction worker. Typical blue collar type. Couldn’t understand the idea of a son that didn’t follow the same masculine mold as he did. You can imagine how much fun that must have been.” 

“Was your father ever violent towards you?” 

“Sometimes. If he was drinking more than usual, he’d yell more, shove me around. Locked me in a closet a few times. Told me I was worthless a lot. He wasn’t a super comforting type parent. That’s why as soon as I turned eighteen and graduated, I changed my name and got the hell out of there.” 

“What used to be your name?” 

He shook his head. “That’s not important, Doctor. That boy is no more.” 

She tapped her pen on her pad and leaned forward. “Tell me about a little about your life in Gotham from before. I want to know what contributed to your first psychotic break that led you to kill Officer Tom Doughterty and Kristen Kringle.”

His eyes narrowed and under his breath, he muttered, “My turn.” 

“Excuse me?” 

He met her gaze and grinned and she knew he had switched personalities. “Bloodlust, I presume.” 

“In the flesh,” he responded, giving her a wink. “You would not believe how stingy the big guy can be when he wants to drive the body. No sense of camraderie whatsoever.” 

“I don’t see you as often,” she observed. “I don’t consider Ed to be a very bloodthirsty person.” 

“He might surprise you,” he said with a tilt of his head. “I was very surprised when he stabbed Tom Dougherty. I didn’t think the guy had it in him but I guess you can push anyone over the edge, with enough time.”

“Why did you kill him?”

He shrugged, throwing up his hands. “Ed wanted to save Kristen Kringle from her abusive boyfriend. None of us could have predicted he’d go so far as to stab the guy ten times.” He tilted his head back and grinned lightly at her. “Lucky for me though. Without that one act, I may never have made my way out of Ed. He bottles up so much, you know. I think he’d been itching to kill someone for _years_.” 

“But you never were violent to anyone before.” 

“No. I was shy, awkward, buttoned-up Ed. You know he’d never even talked to a girl before Kringle. No wonder we fell for her so quickly.”

“Do you regret killing Kristen Kringle?” 

“I couldn’t care less,” he stated bluntly. “We saved her and she was nothing but an ungrateful little bitch. No goddamn gratitude at all.” 

Quinzel gave him a hard look. “How else do you believe a woman would react, upon learning the man she was falling love with wasn’t who she thought he was?” 

The thought of Lee Thompkins ran through Bloodlust’s addled mind. Hadn’t she learned he wasn’t who she thought he could be? And what was her reaction? To take up a blade and defend herself. “Kristen should have fought back,” he said darkly. 

Quinzel stayed quiet and when he looked at her, his eyes were wide but steady. He grinned at her. “She had no fight in her,” he recounted, his voice low. “How pathetic must one be to be killed _accidentally_? Ed loves a pretty face but sometimes, more substance is needed.” He thought of Lee with her beautiful face hiding her dark nature underneath. He felt the familiar twist of his hatred wrapped around his admiration of her. He wondered if she had recovered from her wound. He didn’t entertain the idea of her being dead. He was beginning to think there was little that could kill that woman.

Quinzel was still staring, saying nothing. 

Bloodlust continued, intoxicated by his desire and ability to be heard. “And Idiot Ed just had no idea how strong he was. He’d been told his whole life he was weak and spineless so even when he was _killing her_, he didn’t even realize it.” His eyes glittered with a manic glee. “He’s always been blind to what he could do. That’s why he _needs_ us, me, Riddler, Charisma. We’re the _best_ parts of him.”

Quinzel’s eyes narrowed and she reached out, fingertips grazing his cheek and said sadly, “Oh, Eddie.”

Bloodlust was so startled, he lost his brief sense of control. He was mentally flung away with a stunned Eddie left behind in his wake. He stared at the psychiatrist and saw her sigh with sympathy. 

“You’ve broken yourself into pieces in an attempt to become whole.” 

He jerked away from her grasp, suddenly embarrassed and unsure of himself.

“Why does Riddler think he’s losing time?” she asked suddenly, pouncing on his vulnerability. 

Eddie shifted uncomfortably and avoided her eyes. “Because he’s been sleepwalking,” he answered sullenly. “He went outside last night.” 

“Who was in control when you went out?” 

“...I was.” 

“How did you escape?” 

Eddie shot her an annoyed look. “It was easy. I am a genius after all. But I won’t tell. It’s my business.” 

“If I think a patient is likely to escape custody, it’s my responsibility to report it.” 

“I wasn’t escaping. I just wanted some fresh air. Honestly, Doctor, if I wanted to get out, I’d be walking the streets of Gotham by tonight. Easily. This place is a crackerbox and the people charged with keeping us inside are simultaneously apathetic or just stretched too thin. You forget I’m here by choice?” 

She gave him a reproachful look. “Yes, I’m aware of your...arrangement with the warden. I’d call it inappropriate but we both know this is not the worst thing that’s happened in these halls.” 

Eddie relaxed and chuckled. “Yeah.” 

“Can I ask you something?” she asked. 

“You just did,” he replied with a smile. “But you can ask something else.” 

“Have you ever tried to harm yourself?” 

His smile faded as depressing memories flooded his mind. He answered quickly, voice low. “Yes, twice. I -” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I slit my wrist when I was a kid. And the second time was a few weeks ago. I - I nearly hung myself.” He felt shame at these dark moments of his life. 

Harleen reached out and touched his knee lightly. When he looked at her, she was meeting his gaze with sympathy and… admiration? “If you’re having thoughts like that, I’m glad you’re here seeking treatment. I plan to get to the root of this issue. There’s no reason a man like you should want to die so badly.” 

His throat was dry. He wanted badly to believe her but sometimes… he didn’t know. 

“Let’s head back,” she declared, standing up. “That’ll be all for today’s session.”


	5. Break Out

Riddler was a maelstrom of emotions. 

He had not known what compelled him to be so talkative during that session but it’d put all his personalities on edge. Bloodlust lost some of his bite and was busy quietly sulking that he hadn’t been able to intimidate or fluster the doctor. Charisma was chomping at the bit for another chance at conversing with Quinzel. Eddie was somewhat in his own world, fantasizing about Quinzel. The psychiatrist had done him in with just a touch and now he was thinking of ways to impress her. Riddler rolled his eyes at his child self; Ed had always enjoyed the affections of kind women. He did not know if he’d ever met a kind man in all his life. 

He recounted their respective feelings to Quinzel at their next session. She listened with fascination, taking notes without looking down at her paper. “This is all very good,” she muttered, scribbling away. “I’m starting to see what part of your self inhabits all these other forms. The goal is to bring you all into the one that you actually are. But all things in time. Last session, we covered a few different topics. I’d like to talk more your romantic relationships. And the floor is open to all parties so you have to allow yourself to say all the things you feel.” 

“The mortifying ordeal of being known,” he muttered and she nodded, not without sympathy. 

“Some people tend to think of their therapists like walking journals. You can expect total secrecy and a complete lack of judgement.” 

“I don’t believe that completely. You’re still a human being. If I tell you something like, ‘I want to burn down a houseful of disabled, sex trafficked orphans’, I think you’d judge me just a little bit.”

“Fine. I may judge but I’ll never show that judgement. Is that better?” 

“Well, it’ll have to do. Fire at will.” 

“Tell me what led to the death of Tom Dougherty.” 

“Ed saw bruises on Kringle’s wrist. She deflected when asked about it so he went to Dougherty who admitted to laying his hands on her.” His eyes narrowed and Charisma exclaimed with disgust, “The stupid ape didn’t even have the decency to be ashamed of himself.” 

“You feel very strongly about this,” she pointed out. 

“She was less than half his size,” Charisma spat. “She couldn’t have hurt a housefly and here comes not merely a man but a cop to abuse her? It was repulsive then and I can barely stomach it now.” 

“Did you see anything like that when you were growing up?” she asked. 

Charisma met her gaze. He released a low breath and some of his anger seeped away. Some of it. “No,” he said softly. “Our dad was a moron and a brute but he never put his hands on Mom. When we were little, we used to think that that made him somehow better. We could excuse all the shattered dishes and broken door frames and screaming at all hours of the night, so long as there weren’t bruises to hide.” 

“In your opinion, what ideals about women did you get from each of your parents?” 

“Dad only said if he ever heard I laid hands on a girl or were inappropriate with one in any way, he’d break my hands and legs.” 

“Hands _and_ legs,” she repeated, making a note. “How creative. And your mother?” 

“She taught me to be kind to girls. When other little boys pulled their hair or chased them, I gave them flowers and fixed their toys. Mom always said if you treat a woman with love and care she will be yours forever.” 

Quinzel’s eyebrow twitched slightly as she silently made a note then asked, “Did you employ that method when approaching girls?” 

“Yes. They usually liked it, at first but it never took long for them to lose interest and drift away. I didn’t help matters much, always telling riddles that no one could be bothered to solve.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it away from his face. 

"And that's how you approached Kristen?"

He nodded, though his eyes shaded sadly. "She didn't like me at first either," he admitted. "I...I have issues with boundaries, I think. And - and sometimes I'm not great at reading cues. She didn't like my poems or my gifts but I knew if she just… just gave me a chance...I would give her the world."

The psychiatrist politely covered her mouth in thought. “You eventually began to date. How did that come about?” 

Charisma raised his head and met her eyes. “We became brave,” he stated solidly. “Ed took the first steps by himself but he had our help, even if we all weren’t formed then.” 

“You feel ‘formed’ now?” she asked, leaning forward. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” 

“That’s a bit subjective but let’s continue. How were you brave?” 

“I saved her life,” he said proudly, raising his chin. “When Jerome Valeska and his maniacs stormed the precinct, they killed dozens of officers. She was caught in the middle of the shoot out and I knocked her out of the crosshairs. We survived, obviously, though I was grazed by a bullet.” 

“That is rather brave,” Quinzel commented with an impressed expression. 

“And Ed got rid of Dougherty who could have escalated and killed her. So, truthfully, we saved her life twice.” 

“You think she owed you for that?” 

“I - no - nothing like that. It’s just...how can you not feel something for someone who saves your life?” 

“Tell me about the night she died.” 

He visibly sagged. “We told her about what we’d done to Dougherty. We expected her to feel...I don’t know, relief? Instead, she freaked out. We just wanted her to listen, for just a minute, not judge and listen. We were sure we could make her understand. But we - Ed - he squeezed too tight and he - _ugh_.” Charisma shuddered, rolling his shoulders back as though to dislodge the feeling. “It was an _accident_.”

“I asked this to Bloodlust now I’ll ask it of you: do you regret killing her?”

He met her eyes and nodded. “Yes, I do. I’d give anything to take it back.”

“What happened after she died? The next day.” 

Charisma arched an eyebrow and bowed out, bringing Riddler back to full control. At her question, he couldn’t help but smile albeit sheepishly. 

“I took full control for the first time,” he said. “While Ed slept, I was awake. I saw Kringle’s body lying next to me and I…” He shrugged and though he smiled, he avoided her gaze. “I decided to play a little prank on Ed. I took the body and hid it. Left him clues to find it the next morning.” 

Quinzel frowned lightly and leaned forward, her gaze intent. “Why did you do that?” 

“It was _fun_.” 

“_No_.” She skewered him with her eyes. “Why did you _really_ do it?” 

He stopped and thought about it then answered, “I suppose I was annoyed at Ed. For losing control and creating a problem for us. But it did present me with the chance to lead him on a little chase. I knew he could take it; he just had to figure that out for himself.” 

“So a ‘tough love’ approach,” Quinzel commented. She wrote down another note and continued, “Tell me about the next woman you were with.” 

“Isabella,” he sighed another name spoke with regret. “She came into my life so suddenly and left just as quickly.”

“She died in a car accident, right?” 

“It was no accident. It was Oswald. He had her brakes cut so that she would crash and die.” 

“The Penguin. Why would he do that? I thought you two were friends.”

Riddler swallowed and took a deep breath before speaking. “He did it because he was jealous of her.” He met Quinzel’s eyes. “Because he’s in love with me.” 

Her eyebrows went up. “He told you this?” 

“Yes.” 

“And how did you respond?” 

“Not well,” he replied. “I was so angry over what he’d done to Isabella, I just...rejected him. And then, following a very lengthy bit of psychological torture, I shot him and dumped him in the river.” 

“But Oswald survived,” she said, checking her notes. “What happened when next you saw him?” 

“We escaped from the Court of Owls together. But we eventually turned on each other. I traded him for Tetch and I was going to kill him again but he got the drop on me. I ended up frozen in a block of ice for six months.’

Her eyes widened. “That’s quite a relationship. How do you feel about Oswald now?”

He shrugged carelessly. “We tend to have this ever-revolving cycle of being best friends and bitter enemies. It’s quite weird but it’s very consistent.” 

“How do you feel about Oswald being in love with you?” she asked. 

Charisma gave her a cocky smile. “Is it so surprising?” 

She rolled her eyes slightly making him grin. “I mean to ask, do you return Oswald’s feelings?” 

He went silent, thoughtful. He did have a particular affection for Oswald that he could call love. Sometimes, he felt like Oswald was the only one in the whole city who cared about his well-being. “Oswald’s my best friend,” he said. “So yes, I love him too, as much as someone like me can love someone anyway. I’ve never imagined a romantic relationship with him but whose to say? I do think he’d make a good companion. Though we’d probably fight often.” He smiled, recalling a memory. “He’s a very _particular_ house guest.”

“But in the past you’ve worked well together,” she pointed out. “You’ve told me you helped him regain his confidence after the death of his mother. In turn, he used his political connections to have you released from Arkham the first time you were imprisoned here. You returned the favor by becoming his chief of staff and urging him onto the role of mayor. These are all positive experiences and _then_ the betrayal happens and what could have been a somewhat healthier relationship starts to derail. If you have so few people around you that means that a single person can have a huge influence on your personality. You think you’re so individualistic but you’re…” Her eyes had gone shiny and alert as they took in her patient and he in turn was interested in that. “You’re actually quite flexible depending on who you’re around.” 

His eyes narrowed and Riddler took the lead again. “Explain,” he demanded. 

She shook her head. “Not just yet. Tell me about the doctor who came next.” 

“Leslie Thompkins. We used to work together in the GCPD but she was living in the Narrows and running a clinic for the poor folk of the neighborhood. After being frozen for half a year, I was experiencing some brain damage and I thought she’d be able to help me recover. We ended up becoming partners, very nearly lovers.” 

“And then the betrayal?” Quinzel asked pointedly. 

He smiled humorlessly. “And then the betrayal. I tried to kill her by way of an assassin.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I could see that Ed was falling in love with her.” 

“Why would that be such a bad thing? She seems like a good person.” 

“Ed gets distracted when he’s in love. He gets sloppy. We’ve already decided he’s better off unencumbered.”

“What about you, Riddler?” 

“What about me?” 

“Don’t you love Leslie Thompkins too? You’ve already expressed caring about her.” 

He stared at her for a few tense seconds before he released a breath and relaxed. “I suppose a part of me does,” he admitted. “The part that Ed can influence anyway. I do care about her. It was Ed that encouraged her to step up and be a leader. We’ve always seen that she can do more than she thinks. She…” He trailed off thinking of her, her passion, her stubbornness when she wanted her way, her dark eyes seeking him out, looking to him for reassurance. He felt a sudden pang of missing her, though he wouldn’t admit that out loud. “She’s an amazing woman,” he said simply and smiled, another memory coming to mind. “Got a mean right hook.” 

“And you two became partners, criminals who robbed banks and gave money to the poor, is that right?” 

“I’m assuming you read some of the old newspapers,” he said. “But yes, that’s what happened. She thought the money was enough for the Narrows to recover itself. We were going to leave Gotham together.” His voice lowered. “But she lied.” 

“How did she lie?” 

“She was never going to leave Gotham with me,” he said darkly. “She only said that because I had Jim Gordon in a fatal position. She said it to get me to let him go.” 

“She had a prior relationship to Jim Gordon but you think she still has feelings for him?” 

“She insists that she doesn’t but… I’ve seen the way she looks at him. It’s unmistakable.” 

“And so how did it end?” 

“When she said she wasn’t leaving, she said we were through and I just took out my knife.” His voice wavered a little as he recalled. “I don’t remember what I was thinking. I approached her, the knife behind my back. And right before the strike she said that both me and Jim both wanted to change her, that neither of us really saw her. And she drove the knife into my gut.” 

Harleen leaned forward, eyes wide. 

“She held my face and she told me what she was offering was real. But she insists I would have eventually tried to kill her anyway. It was just what I _did_.” He bared his teeth. “I guess I can’t be mad since I _was_ there with the intent to stab her. But I pulled the knife and drove it back into her. I didn’t think I could hurt her but I did. And before we both collapsed, we shared a final kiss. It was all rather poetic.” 

“Your relationships tend to have a lot of turmoil,” she observed. 

“So tell me how I’m flexible around certain people,” he said. 

“It’s simple. You’re certainly capable of deep feelings such as love, jealousy, and passion. When it came to Isabella, the trauma of her death sent off a deep vengeful reaction in you. Even though, according to you, you had known her for less than a month. You turned on your best friend because he manipulated you and the two of you engaged in this near-lethal cat and mouse pursuit you appear to be equally skilled in. And yet you still call him friend. And obviously, he still feels the same way about you.”

In the case of Lee, you adjusted your goals for hers and followed her lead, in supplying a neighborhood that you personally don’t care much for. She asked you to apply non-lethal methods and you complied. You put your neck on the line for her a few times. She relied on you and was a friend to you. But your jealousy over her feelings about her ex got the better of you. Just like Oswald’s jealousy led him to kill Isabella and wreck your relationship, you’ve done the same with you and Lee with your jealousy of Jim Gordon.” 

She leaned forward, being sure to keep his gaze. “You speak of love like it’s something that’s owed to you. Same as your partners, you want a monopoly on their feelings. You’re not recognizing that love is about many things. You’re willing to sacrifice for your partners, that’s obvious. But you don’t trust them too much. Or you like to play games too much. You don’t always view them as equals.” 

Though he listened, he also bristled at being told about himself. 

“You have the foundation here to build a strong relationship, with either of your prospects or with someone new. You just have to commit yourself to being a little more lenient with your partner.” 

His brow furrowed as he looked at her. “My prospects?” 

She gestured vaguely at him. “Come on, Riddler. You’re obviously not bad looking. And I’m sure you’re able to get equally attractive partners of either sex.” 

He hid the urge to blush. He’d never seriously considered the idea of attracting men but if he was _good_ at it, why not try? 

“You seem a little more receptive to the idea than the last time I brought it up,” she said. 

He gave a shrug, attempting to look nonchalant. “I suppose I feel less a need to discriminate between genders. As long as my prospect is able to hold my attention.” 

Harleen rolled her eyes lightly. “Well, you’ll have to work on some of your communication skills.” 

He took some of her words into consideration. It wasn’t part of his main goal to get healthy but he reasoned it wouldn’t hurt to consider the way he’d treated people, toyed with them. He found it hard not to. Hadn’t they used him for their own gain as well? Lee to run the Narrows and Oswald to bolster his control over the city. All of their relationships were somewhat symbiotic. Someone gave, someone got, and then they alternated. 

He stayed up late, contemplating his budding sexuality. The more he thought about it, the more it appealed. Dr. Quinzel had gotten him an old mp3 player to listen to. She’d loaded it with instrumentals and music that he might identify with, in the hopes that listening would help him focus up and drown out his many voices when they got too loud. He flicked through the song list and put on a smooth jazz instrumental that he let fill his ears. 

In his head, he hatched idle fantasies about his ‘prospects’. He imagined what it’d be like to kiss Oswald. The smaller man would definitely grasp at him, pull him close. Alone in his cell, his hands wandered past his waist line to bring his erection to full standing as he thought about making out with the former mayor and King of Gotham. 

And then the fantasy warped and it was Lee in his arms, in his bed, pressed down under his weight. He imagined her dark eyes meeting his, her face in ecstasy as his breath hitched and the motions in his pants sped up. He had seen that ecstatic expression on her face once before - when he held a knife to her neck. 

Taking pleasure in the thought of the two, his other personalities became blissfully silent. For once they seemed in agreement that this was not a moment that needed sharing in. Unfortunately, the camaraderie was not to last. 

He went to sleep early one night and thought himself fast asleep until he woke up abruptly, standing upright in… He glanced around, a club bathroom? The floors were beautifully inlaid tile, the walls rich wood. He glanced at himself in the mirror, stunned. He had discarded the casual clothes of Arkham and was dressed in a suit that was somewhat too small for him and a pair of black Converse that were definitely not his but fit nonetheless. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his suit jacket thrown open wide. The pants were entirely too small, snug at the crotch, with several inches of ankle showing above the high tops of his sneakers. 

He glared in the mirror. “Where the fuck are we?” he growled, exasperated. 

Eddie appeared behind him, a beatific smile on his face. “Chill,” he said calmly. “We’re good.”

He turned on his younger self and charged him, causing the other him to back up in alarm. “Where the _fuck_ have you taken us?” he spat harshly. He had no sense of his location but he felt the distance from Arkham all the same. This new loss of time was starting to grate on him. He was already losing pieces of his mind and now he’d lose control of his body to apparitions of his mind. 

He grabbed onto the front of Eddie’s shirt, pulling him close. “You need to cut the shit, kid,” he warned menacingly. 

Eddie’s eyes flashed and suddenly it was Bloodlust in his grip. This leering version of himself immediately pushed back, upsetting his balance and placed one hand loosely on his neck. “Don’t get any bright ideas,” he growled back. “It’s his body as much as it’s yours.”

Riddler was prepared to argue that point when Charisma appeared, putting one hand on either’s shoulders. “Both of you relax,” he advised. “We don’t need to start a scene in public.” He gently pried them out of each other’s grasps and addressed Riddler. “We’re in Midtown at Adeline’s, a jazz club.”

“How’d we get so far uptown?” he wondered aloud, stunned. “And where’d these clothes come from?”

Charisma gave him a sympathetic look and recalled the memory in such a way that it became clear to Riddler. He got glimpses of memory, of Eddie navigating his body through the basement of Arkham, a forbidden zone. The walls were lined with furniture, heavy with thick cobwebs. Eddie moved through them all effortlessly until he found a storm drain that led out of the asylum and into the nearby woods. It wasn’t a complete memory but it explained how they’d gotten out at least.

Riddler sighed raggedly, turning around to face the mirror. His personalities crowded behind him, silent and watchful. 

“Trying to contain us isn’t going to work,” Charisma explained lightly. “We are all part of you. It might do you well to stop your ideas of superiority.” He lightened up with a smile. “Eddie thinks we could use a relaxing night. That’s why we’re here. Just going to enjoy some music and drinks and get back to Arkham before we turn into a pumpkin. So take it easy, sunshine, the night is young.”

He was still rather incensed but there was little to do. He became aware of a drink resting on the sink’s ledge, his signature grasshopper with chocolate shavings decorating the rim. He gave a sigh of resignation and downed the drink in one pull. 

“You alright there?” 

He turned to see a someone surveying him from the doorway, a young man probably a handful of years under him. He was a handsome sort, fair skinned with flyaway blonde hair that brushed his shoulders. Riddler was momentarily distracted from his own worries. “Yeah,” he answered, attempting to recover and look casual. “Just nerves, I guess.” 

“I have something for that, if you’re interested.” The blonde crossed into the bathroom and removed from his pocket an Altoids tin, though he seriously doubted there were actually mints inside. “It’s MDMA,” he clarified. “Pure molly, none of that cut shit.”

There were worse drugs to take. And if it helped pacify his rambunctious personalities, he would consider it. “Have you taken any?” he asked, looking into the young man’s eyes for dilation. 

“Yeah,” he said, ruffling his hair back. “A little while ago so I’ll probably start rolling in another twenty minutes or so. Tell you what. Take this.” He placed one white pill in Riddler’s palm. “If you feel like it, pop. It not, don’t. But if you do, come find me later.” He gave a charming smile then stepped away to enter a bathroom stall. 

Riddler eyed the pill in his hand before shoving it into his pocket. He took what remained of his drink and headed out of the bathroom. 

The club, Adeline’s, was nice and lush. The low lighting was a welcome change from Arkham’s harsh flourescents. The place was nicely sized and not more than half full. The wall to wall carpeting provided a bit of insulation so that the live band seemed to be playing in an echo chamber. The current piano and trumpet piece they were playing was soothing and helped calm some of Riddler’s frazzled nerves. 

He found his way to the bar and ordered another grasshopper after finding some money shoved in his pocket. He was just about ready to give up wondering how Eddie had pulled all of this off. He just hoped they could sneak back in undetected before someone realized he’d escaped. 

He took a seat and let his attention wander from the band that wasn’t half bad to the finely dressed patrons of the establishment. It was the type of place he wouldn’t mind visiting in his leisure. Well, it seemed like he was getting to do just that. He sipped his drink and let the music and atmosphere lull him into a state of calm. It certainly was nice to be in a relaxed setting without the screams of the insane echoing in the backdrop. 

“Ed?”

He flinched slightly at the sound of the single syllable. He straightened up, refocusing his attention, and locked eyes with none other than Lucius Fox. From the look on the other man’s face, he was just as surprised to see him.

_“Foxy.”_ The name slid out unbidden. “What a surprise running into you.”

“I might say the same of you, Ed. I’m a regular at this place and I’ve never seen you here before.” A pause then, “There was a rumor you were dead. What are you doing here of all places?” 

“The same as you,” he said curtly. “Come to drink and enjoy some entertainment. You could do the same if you weren’t focused on interrogating me,” he said pointedly then gestured vaguely to the seat next to him. 

Lucius hesitated a moment before he took the seat. “I hope you’re not up to something nefarious,” he said. “I rather like this club and the people who work here.” 

He put a hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear to refrain from any mischief making tonight. Happy, Foxy?” 

Lucius gave him one last particular look before settling in beside him. Riddler found the expression interesting, almost like a warning. But what would Lucius do if he didn’t keep his word?

He didn’t let his mind dwell on devious thoughts. He reapplied his attention to the music and nodded along to the jaunty tunes. 

“Are you a fan of jazz?” Lucius asked suddenly, his tone conversational.

“I am,” he responded. “Right now I’m practicing music therapy and this genre is both soothing and engaging.” 

“I see,” Lucius responded. “What in particular do you find so engaging?” 

And so they began a discussion on the different vibrations of various instruments and how they all harmonize when brought together with skillful players. He learned Lucius played the violin at an intermediate level and he revealed his own skill on the piano. They traded names of favorite composers and musicians. Some time had passed before he realized the strangeness of the situation, odd simply for its normalcy. 

At a lull in conversation, he caught Lucius eyeing him. “What?” he asked of the other man, tilting his head. 

“It’s...Well, you seem different, Ed,” Lucius admitted. 

“In what way?” 

“I couldn’t say,” Lucius said slowly shaking his head. “You just don’t seem your normal self. For one, you haven’t asked me a single riddle since we’ve been sitting here.” 

“That’s not surprising,” he replied glumly. “I haven’t felt like my normal self in weeks. In fact, I feel like I’m at constant war with myself.”

“If I understand correctly, that’s not uncommon for you, Ed.” 

“True but it’s...gotten worse. I’m seeing a doctor, to help me pull myself together.” 

“Well, that’s certainly a turnaround from last time,” Lucius commented. “I’m glad you’re seeking assistance for your mental health. What made you change your attitude this time around?” 

He remembered the acute sensation of bleeding out on a hardwood floor while Lee did the same a few feet away. He sighed, feeling supreme exhaustion. “I’m getting tired of hurting people I care about,” he confessed. 

Lucius fell silent but he shifted his weight to lean in towards Riddler. He responded in kind and they sat shoulder to shoulder in a tense but steady silence. He snuck glances out the corner of his eye. Lucius had a fine profile. Something in him, the parts that required human interaction, ached at being long starved. The pressure on his arm was enough to rile him, get his heart beating faster. At one point, he remembered the drug in his pocket and thinking, “Screw it,” popped the pill while Lucius was looking away. 

There was no acting on whatever electricity passed between them. Occasionally, he would catch Lucius’ eye. The other man would give him a meaningful stare but nothing beyond that. He didn’t dare lean in, try to capture his mouth in a kiss, even when he couldn’t seem to stare anywhere besides Lucius’ lips. But he controlled himself. He had promised no mischief. 

After some time, Lucius made his excuses to go. He was disappointed at being parted but also, he could feel the molly beginning to kick in and thought now was as good a time as any. Especially because his body was starting to get heavy and he was sure the music was having a physical effect on him. 

“I hope your recovery goes well,” Lucius said and extended his hand for him to shake. 

Riddler’s eyes focused in on the hand and he grasped it, feeling its firm and smooth texture under his fingers. The drug was _definitely_ kicking in because Lucius’ hand was suddenly the best feeling thing in the world. 

“Thank you, Lucius,” he said with feeling. “You’ve always been...most kind.” He braced himself before he leaned forward swiftly and planted a chaste kiss on Lucius’ cheek. He heard the other man give a sharp intake of breath but little objection beyond that. He grinned wide, to hide his nervousness. “Ha, I got you, Foxy.” 

Lucius finally relaxed into an easy smile. “That you did. Oddly, it’s been a pleasant evening. Though if you tell anyone that, I will deny it.” 

Riddler grinned. “Take care of yourself, Lucius.” 

“Same to you, Ed.” 

Lucius departed and to distract himself from his own audacity, Riddler idly licked melted chocolate from the rim of his martini glass. It was bitter and delicious. He felt his skin starting to tingle and began to rhythmically tap his fingers against the bar top. 

“Hey.” A low voice behind him and he turned to see the blonde from earlier sliding into the seat Lucius had vacated. “I hoped you weren’t going to leave with that other guy.” 

Riddler’s thoughts were jumbled though the drug had relaxed him into a pliable state. “No, I have somewhere to be tonight,” he said, feeling the weight of his eyelids. “I can’t stay out too late or I’ll turn into a pumpkin.” 

The blonde smiled. “What’s your name?” 

“I’m Edward. You?” 

“Thor.” 

“Your real name?” 

In response, he pulled out his wallet, withdrew his I.D. and held it up to eye level. The name on it read Thorun Ragnarsson.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Riddler muttered and Thor chuckled. "Are you a Viking like your namesake?"

“My parents are Scandanavian but I’m a Gothamite, born and bred.” He leaned against the bar and scanned Riddler, head to toe. “You feeling that molly I gave you?” 

“Mm, yes,” he said lowly, resuming his tapping against the bar. He was grinding his teeth slightly as he worked against the sudden urge to chatter mindlessly.

Thor reached out and covered his fidgeting hand with his own. The pressure was delightful and Riddler immediately calmed, closing his eyes to enjoy the sensation. “I don't really take drugs," he admitted. "How long am I gonna be like this?” he asked. 

“Just a couple of hours,” Thor answered, carefully caressing Riddler's hand. “So you’d better make the most of it.”

Riddler leaned into him, entwining their fingers together suddenly. Their faces were a few mere inches apart and again Riddler marveled at his newfound daring. “Is this a hobby of yours, drugging impressionable strangers in bars?” 

“Hey, by all technicalities, if you take it willingly, you haven’t been drugged. As for my hobby, I do like to stay on the party scene. I know a lot of people who are links to Gotham’s underworld, DJs and bloggers and drug dealers, and they all come together in the most interesting of ways.” 

Riddler was listening with half an ear and still biting back the urge to laugh. Thor spoke as though he had some scandalous secret. If he really wanted a link to Gotham’s underworld, he needn’t look further than a foot to his left.

He was distracted, dragging his fingertips lightly up Thor’s arm. The blonde merely laughed and leaned in close. “How about we go for a bit of privacy?” he breathed into Riddler’s ear. 

Riddler caught his gaze, registered the heat in his eyes and easily acquiesced. 

He let Thor lead the way into the bathroom, into the last stall on the row. They had barely closed the door behind them when the younger man caught him in a deep kiss. Riddler was a little stunned at kissing a man for the first time but the drug had severely lowered his inhibitions. After a few seconds, a mouth was just a mouth. He responded with equal fervor, pressing the blonde up against the wall of the stall. 

This intimacy was a whirlwind of intense sensation and greedy pleasure. He let his mind lose all focus as Thor’s hands explored him, pressing against his chest, his belly, eventually snaking low to cup his groin. He barely surpressed a groan as Thor’s hand traced the outline of his shaft and his growing erection strained at the restrictive pants he was wearing. 

He bit his lip as Thor began peppering his neck with little kisses and bites while his hands worked at his belt. He barely registered it before he was freed to the world and Thor could grip him properly. 

“Big boy,” he said appreciatively as his hand wrapped around Riddler’s cock and began to pump slowly. 

He released a deep breath as he tilted his head back, eyes closed, enjoying the overload of sensation he was feeling. It was positively euphoric. 

He only vaguely recognized when Thor’s lips came away from his neck and the young man lowered himself to his knees. Riddler looked down at him, intrigue and desire burning in his gaze. He gently wound his fingers through Thor’s golden hair as he lowered his head and lightly kissed the head of Riddler’s dick. He tightened his hold, fingers gripping silky hair until he felt Thor’s mouth closing over his rigid flesh. 

He released him all at once but he was frozen still as Thor worked his mouth over his shaft. He let his eyes roll back as wave after wave of pleasure assaulted him as the man on his knees went to work, lapping his tongue up and down his length. 

“Goddamn…” Riddler growled under his breath as he felt himself reaching a peak. It had definitely been too long since his last sexual encounter. He could feel himself near to bursting and only could tap the back of Thor’s head in warning of his imminent release. In response, Thor hummed and massaged at his thighs, encouraging. 

He grit his teeth to muffle the sensuous moan that emerged from his throat as he orgasmed, emptying himself into his Viking friend. The young man lapped at him greedily, cleaning him thoroughly, and Riddler could feel the beginnings of another erection. 

Thor climbed back to his feet and smiled at him. "Good?"

"Phenomenal," he groaned softly. He reached out for him and planted another soft kiss on his lips. 

Thor responded enthusiastically before pushing him back with a chuckle. "Best not to linger," he said. "Or they'll send someone in to rouse us deviants." 

Riddler merely smirked and flicked the latch to let the door swing open. He let Thor exit first and used the time to readjust himself back into his ill fitting pants. He was still riding the wave of drug induced euphoria and post orgasm bliss. 

He joined Thor at the sink where the blonde was washing his hands and rinsing out his mouth. He gave him an appreciate up and down look then asked, “You doing anything this weekend?” 

Riddler perked up, having to focus. “Hm?” 

“This weekend? I know about a pretty cool event happening in South Village.” 

He smiled lazily. “Can’t. I...I’m only in the city for business. After tonight, I’m out of town, probably won’t be back for a few weeks.” The lie was oddly effortless. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, smiling with self-satisfaction. 

“I see,” Thor replied. “That makes our meeting rather…”

“Serendipitous,” he replied easily. 

“Yeah, that.” He turned off the water and met Riddler’s eyes. “Well, if you happen to be in the city around Halloween time, you should hit me up. There’s going to be a wild party at a club in the Narrows.” 

Riddler blinked, straightening up quickly. “There isn’t a nightclub in the Narrows,” he said, frowning. 

“There’s not now,” Thor clarified. “But there will be soon and opening night’s supposed to be Halloween.”

At Riddler’s persisting look of confusion, Thor pulled out his phone and started tapping at the screen. He easily towered over the younger man and could see the screen over his shoulder. He was on Youtube, scrolling through a list of videos before he tapped one, maximizing the screen. 

Riddler instantly recognized the young woman on the screen. A regular at Cherry’s, he didn’t know her name but she was memorable for her shaved head and peculiar visor that looked like the points of bat’s ears. She smiled widely, flashing even white teeth behind her black lipsticked mouth. “Hey everyone, it’s your girl, Zahra. The message goes out to my Nation - I will be taking a temporary hiatus from my usual makeup tutorials as I undertake an exciting new business venture.” The camera zoomed out to show the background of what looked like an empty warehouse with people moving to and fro. “Details are still being hammered out and most of this is hush-hush but in a couple weeks time, I am going to be the proprietor of the hottest new nightclub in the Narrows, in all of Gotham!” Zahra’s grin was wide and victorious as she met the camera head on. “Stay tuned to my channel for future updates. Much and more opportunities are coming to life. Stay blessed.” 

Interesting. Clearly, the Narrows had not stood still in his absence. He didn’t know whether to feel impressed or offended. 

“I have it on good authority, it’s set to be a rager.” Thor was talking again but Riddler was distracted.

“What time is it?” 

“Nearly midnight.” 

_Shit._ “I need to go,” he said, pushing himself off from the wall. 

“Can I get you number?” 

He looked at him. “I don’t have a phone right now. It broke last week.” 

“Hm. How about you just take my number then.” He withdrew a scrap of paper from his pocket and scrawled his number onto it. Riddler eyed it for a moment before slipping it into his pocket. He looked at Thor and smiled. “Thank you,” he said softly. “For all of it.” 

Thor grinned crookedly, fussing with his hair. “It was my pleasure.” 

They shared a final kiss before he exited, preparing to sneak his way back into the insane asylum.


	6. Actions & Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update after about two months! Without getting into the gritty details of my personal life, my day to day has shifted since Christmas. A new job and living situation has created new limitations. Before, I could comfortably write for a minimum of an hour every day during the week. Now, I'm less able to carve out time which is why this update took so damn long. (That, and I write on the fly without any outline so that just makes this activity that much more difficult.) I'm fairly new on AO3 so I highly doubt there's a crowd of people waiting on updates for me but for those few that are waiting with bated breath, thank you for your patience. And if you ever find yourself wondering if I've abandoned a fic, don't worry, I'll try to make a note if any story is going to experience a significant delay or in danger of abandonment.
> 
> Okay! We good? On to the story!

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a relaxing and fun night. 

His elevated mood could have been due to a number of factors - his reckless substance use, casual same sex encounter, or the calming of his other personalities - but he enjoyed it all the same. He had vague recollections of walking the Gotham streets, lurking through the woods near the asylum, finding where he’d stashed his clothes earlier, and managing to squeeze his way back through the same narrow tunnel he’d escaped from. At the end of it he was smelly and exhausted but triumphant. He stayed awake until dawn, replaying the night’s events, determined to commit the sensations into his eidetic mind. 

In the past, he’d mentally worried himself ragged about any possible attraction he might have for other men. It had always been there, forced down and locked away, and he never considered that he could access those feelings. A childhood full of his father’s sneering aggression, years of bullies - from the schoolyard to his workplaces - pushing him around and spitting slurs, and a lifetime of having his masculinity challenged might not have allowed for easy exploration. He’d expected to feel shame - and maybe he would, once he sobered up - but with this chance encounter, he felt exposed and oddly unafraid of the fact. He knew this new recklessness of his was due to the drugs coursing through him but he didn’t care. His lack of inhibitions was something to enjoy; Thor had said to make the most of it. 

He thought of the handsome blonde man, the feel of his lips closing around him and a shiver ran through him. Though he grew hard and his hand danced around his waistline, he didn’t reach lower to take hold of himself, not yet. He didn’t want to mix any new sensation with the memory in his head. Instead, he ran a jittery finger up and down the scar on his belly that had started to keloid - his parting gift from Doc Thompkins. Remembering her made his erection throb harder and he gently rubbed himself to soothe the ache, wishing it was Lee’s hand, the very same she’d punched him with, stabbed him with, comforted him with as he slowly felt himself die. 

Maybe it was the drugs in his system but what did it say about him that the thought of dying at her hand didn’t sound quite so bad? 

_You’re being a sentimental idiot,_ a voice inside him said. 

_Who cares,_ he retorted. _There’s no one here to see. No audience to perform for._

_And what a shame that is,_ the voice replied. _Do you plan to waste away in here then?_

_I’m not planning much of anything,_ he responded carelessly. 

_And more’s the pity for it,_ the voice shot back, nastily. _You may be on vacation but don’t forget who you are._

“And who the hell is that?” he wondered aloud.

He received no answer.

When he finally came down from his high, he’d slept away the whole day and woke up in the night. He felt shaky and weak and his throat was painful with dryness. He stumbled out of his bed and made his way to the door where he peered out into the hallway. Down the hall, he could see a guard posted on watch. He coughed weakly and hoarsely called out to her. 

The guard came over. She was a Hispanic woman, early to mid twenties, with her brown hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her nametag read B. Peña and her expression was more concerned than annoyed.

“So you finally woke up, eh?” she said. Her accent, though faint, was pleasant to the ears. “If you’re after medication, you’re gonna have to wait til morning rounds.” 

“Not meds,” he choked out. “Just water.” His stomach cramped uncomfortably and he added quickly, “And maybe something to eat.” 

Her expression grew stubborn. “Can’t you wait until morning?” 

He coughed and wheezed dramatically for her effect. “Can’t,” he insisted. “Pretty please?” 

She rolled her eyes slightly then stepped forward to unlock his cell. “Ten minutes. Let’s make it quick.” 

He let her lead the way to the mess hall. He sat at one of the long tables and waited as she rummaged around in the kitchen. Five minutes later, she emerged with a sandwich on a plate and a large glass of ice water. He took the drink first and downed about half of it without pause and nearly moaned in relief. Then he started on his sandwich. 

While he ate, Peña stood watch nearby, looking stiff and somewhat nervous. He watched her trying to still her fidgeting and nervous movements. “You’re new, aren’t you?” he asked conversationally, between bites of his salami and cheese. 

“I - yeah, I am,” she answered shortly. “This place isn’t as crazy as people claim.” 

“Guess you got in at a good time,” he commented. He let the silence between them stretch as he ate his sandwich and casually observed her. Once he was finished, he was struck by a new impulse. He suddenly felt the urge to make a reckless request so he called out to her, “Can I ask you for one more thing?” 

“Depends what it is.” 

He paused then asked, “Can I see your phone?” 

She drew up slightly, brow furrowed. “Phones are supposed to be left in our lockers while we’re on shift.” 

“Yes, supposed to,” he pointed out. “But I happen to know that third shift is much looser with that rule when the Warden’s not in the building. Also - and I’m not trying to be a creep about this - I can see the outline of your phone through your shirt.” 

Peña’s hands went up to her chest, covering the faint rectangular outline there. She tried to cover her own rule-breaking with bluster. “You want to make a phone call, you wait until regular communication hours.” 

“I don’t want to call anyone. I just want to check Youtube for a minute.” 

She paused and seemed to be weighing the options. He left her alone while she did so and in a moment, she’d given a sigh of frustration. “Okay, fine. But only one video, okay?” 

“Perfect.” 

She moved next to him and reached into her shirt to retrieve her phone and pass it over. “Try anything funny and I will taze you.” 

“Duly noted.” 

When the phone was placed in his hands, he quickly went to Youtube and searched the username he remembered seeing on Thor’s phone. Zahra’s channel page came up quickly. She’d been a member and content creator for nearly ten years with more than a hundred videos posted on various subjects. The bulk of Zahra’s work was makeup tutorials, some book and movie reviews, some that were just casual video blogging. He looked among her more recent uploads and tapped on a short video titled, Dreams Do Come True. 

The video started with Zahra smiling into the camera, wearing her trademark visor and dark purple lipstick. “Hey, Z Nation,” she said, her voice low. “Glad y’all are still tuning in even though my makeup videos are on pause for the moment. I promised to keep y’all updated so here we go. I have a perfect spot for my new club and right now I’m working on getting this place shiny and brand-new. I want my opening night to be on Halloween so I have a few weeks to get everything in order. Y’all, I’m pumped! I’ve been dreaming about this day for years and it’s finally coming true. I’m honestly just so lucky and blessed and I’m happy that you all can come on this journey with me.” 

“I’ll definitely do a walkthrough video very soon but this is just a brief thought from me. Most of you who have followed me for a long time know that my life hasn’t been easy. I lost my father at a young age and I escaped an abusive family situation. My point is: even at the lowest part of your life, you should never lose sight of your goals. Ambition and determination will make your dreams come true, if only you’re willing to fight and never give up on yourself. That’s a message I struggle to always remember and I hope you who watch me will do the same. Never think you’re not worthy of all the good things you dream of in your lives. Okay? Stay blessed out there in those streets, ya heard me?” 

The video ended and Peña was quick about shuffling him back to his room.

He thought of the changes going on in the Narrows. He had no way to guage the scope of all the changes Lee was enacting in her rulership but he privately hoped she was doing well. She had hesitated so much when he urged her to step up and take Cherry’s role and now she had hit the ground running, on her own. He felt a peculiar sense of pride for her. 

He stayed up the rest of the night and elected to battle his exhaustion through the daytime hours so that he could readjust his sleep schedule. He occupied himself by wandering listlessly through the asylum when he turned into the corridor leading to the front desk. He heard the sound of a tense argument and as he neared he could identify the voices. The first, Dr. Quinzel, was speaking firmly with her voice slightly raised above an acceptable level, “- is not cleared for visitation privileges and in my professional opinion, may not be for some time.” 

“Well, Doctor,” came the reply and Riddler rocked slightly on his heels, hearing Oswald’s voice. “As it were, I didn’t come for your professional opinion. I came for Ed Nygma.” He licked his lips slightly as he shook his head. It had to be a rare skill, he thought, to sound both demanding and patronizing at once.

He heard the sound of awkward shuffling and he knew without seeing that Oswald had walked into Quinzel’s personal space. He had a reliable habit of getting up close and personal when he wanted to make sure his point was being made. “I know he is here and I’m not going to ask you a second time to go fetch him for me.”

“_Don’t_ talk to me like that,” Quinzel said warningly, her tone spiking with anger. “No one here is at your beck or call, Mr. Cobblepot and if I deem you a threat to either the staff or inmates here I will call the police and have you removed.” 

Oswald gave a scathing laugh. “The police? My good doctor, I don’t think you’re learned how things are run in our fair city. I have enough cops on my payroll to ensure that I will have my way. So! If you please?” 

It was then Riddler decided to move. Neither seemed likely to back down and the last thing he needed was for Oswald to start stabbing people. He marched around the corner, spotting Quinzel and Oswald mere inches from each other, each staring challengingly into the eyes of the other. Behind them, Peña was seated at the front desk, watching the confrontation with thinly veiled excitement.

_“Oswald.”_

Quinzel spun around at the sound of his voice but Riddler kept his eyes on Oswald. The Penguin was jacketed in a handsome dark peacoat, a purple tie rested at his throat and his hair was shorter, artfully spiked and swept back. Internally, he felt Charisma’s grimace of annoyance at Oswald’s posh appearance in contrast to their own grubby countenance. _Nothing to be done for it,_ he thought in an attempt to soothe and move past it. _Clothes can’t matter now._ He drew his shoulders back and walked to them, fixing a mild expression on his face. “You’re loud as always,” he chastised. “Show some manners, will you?”

Oswald’s greedy eyes took him in. He could see the pleasure that the shorter man took in his dilapidated appearance. He opened his mouth, obviously preparing a barb to spit, but Quinzel interjected, taking a step towards him. 

“Riddler, I don’t think this is a good idea at all. I must advise against it.” 

Behind her, Oswald burst out laughing. “Are you kidding? You aren’t seriously entertaining this man’s delusion, are you? His name is Ed.” He smirked as his glared at the other man. “Plain old Ed Nygma.”

Bloodlust snarled within him but he merely raised his chin, holding Oswald’s gaze for a few seconds before he looked down at Dr. Quinzel. “I hear your advice,” he assured. “But it’s best to do as he wants. Otherwise, he’ll just hang out here all day.”

“He’s right,” Oswald piped up. 

Quinzel gave a long suffering sigh, rubbing at one of her temples. “Fine,” she consented. “Fifteen minutes of visitation. Follow me.” 

“Ahem!” Oswald interjected. “I know for a fact inmates normally get thirty minutes of visitation.” 

She stopped and spun on her heel, looking at him with a stony expression. “Consider it fair play for you muscling your way in here.” She whisked back around and marched off, her nose pointed towards the air. 

Oswald was visibly irritated and Riddler shook his head, biting back the urge to smile. He swept his arm out, indicating the path Dr. Quinzel had taken. “After you.”

Oswald started moving and Riddler fell into step beside him. He didn’t speak but he could see Oswald’s sharp little eyes peering at him from their corners. He was reminded of their very first encounter at the GCPD, walking alongside each other but separate all the same. It felt like an entire lifetime ago. 

Quinzel led them to one of the visiting rooms, talking briefly with the guard outside before turning to them and holding her hand out to Oswald. “Your cane, please,” she asked and he held it out to her with a mocking smile to go with. The guard opened the gate and Riddler entered first, followed by Oswald. “We’ll be right outside,” Dr. Quinzel assured, locking eyes with him before she stepped away, out of sight. 

He sank into his seat and Oswald did the same, shedding his coat as he did so. He wore a handsome gray vest over a black pinstriped suit, the long sleeves folded back at his wrists with what appeared to be sterling silver cufflinks in the shape of small penguins. The sight of him brought a smile to Riddler’s face. “Dapper, as always.”

“How I wish I could say the same.” There was no sincerity in the statement, only derision. He closed his eyes briefly. It’s not like he could have expected much more. Hadn’t he been on the other side of the table not too long ago, doing the exact same thing? 

Riddler opened his eyes and focused on Oswald. “How’d you find me?” he asked, curious. 

“A rather curious turn of events,” Oswald said. He straightened up in his seat and fixed him with an intense stare. Riddler was momentarily distracted by how very bright his eyes looked. “I waded into that cesspit of a dive bar they call Cherry’s in search of the good Doctor Thompkins to question her on your whereabouts. She was in the midst of holding court and swore she knew nothing of you. But as I was leaving, a young street urchin scurried up, quick as you like, with the information at the ready. One of the Doc’s little spies gone rogue. Do you know that little rascal tried to shake me down for three hundred dollars?” Oswald rolled his eyes dramatically. “I told him I’d give him the fifty in my pocket and let him keep his fingers and he was suddenly very forthcoming with your whereabouts.” 

Oswald had supplied him with a number of facts - Lee appeared to still be firmly in control of the Narrows, she was utlizing his spy system to her advantage, and she was paying far too much for information. 

Also - and this thought registered distantly with just a pinprick of hurt - she knew where he was and hadn’t sought him out. He didn’t know what he expected, a rescue or another attempt on his life but it didn’t matter. There was no denying how much he craved attention from any matter of audience and he’d loathe to admit this out loud but he longed to be the focus of her gaze once more.

“So you’ve found me,” he said, his tone low and unimpressed. “What of it?” 

“What of it?” Oswald repeated. “I think you could explain what you’re doing here in the first place. Last time I saw you, you were locking me and Butch in a bank cell.” His mouth twisted petulantly and Riddler couldn’t help but smile. It was an endearing expression and an amusing memory that he enjoyed recalling. “And then I got caught up in Barbara Kean’s plot mixing with Jeremiah Valeska and finally, I had to deal with Tabitha Galavan and Butch. With all that going on, you’ve slipped under my notice.” 

That last comment was meant to hurt and it annoyed him but his curiosity got the better of him. “What happened with Tabitha and Butch?” he asked.

“I killed him,” Oswald said without remorse. “I employed Hugo Strange to fix him up and get him back to his old, alive self and then I shot him in the heart right in front of Tabitha. Serves her right.” 

Inside him, Bloodlust curled, practically purring at the thought of such unrepentant violence. Riddler had to focus to keep him at bay and it was something of a struggle. Still, he growled low and felt his wild self’s voice affecting his tone. “Is that sufficient revenge for your mother?” he asked, his eyes focused on Oswald’s. 

“Not yet,” he replied softly. “But it’s a step in the right direction.” He drew back slightly and surveyed Riddler’s poor appearance. “But the fact that you didn’t know about it tells me you’ve been here for some time, cut off from the information on the streets. So, how did you end up here?”

He sighed, resisting the urge to press his fingers to his eyelids. No way to lie his way out of this one so he didn’t bother. “I came here of my own free will. Because I’m...what was it you called me? A troubled man.” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean all that!” he protested with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I was merely trying to get under Lee’s skin.” Here, he cut his eyes sneakily at Ed. “Which I’m sure you know much about.” It was hard to decipher his expression, somewhere between pouting and smirking to cover it up. 

“But you don’t know how right you were, Oswald,” he said calmly, choosing to ignore the little jab about Lee. “I’m not well and I’m here receiving treatment for my mental heath.” 

“Here?” he exclaimed, incredulous. “Ed, this is a madhouse where they throw the criminally insane away to rot, in an attempt to pacify civilians. This isn’t a place to get any kind of proper rehabilitation.”

“I’ve been doing alright since I’ve been here,” he said, maintaining his even tone in the face of Oswald’s outrage. “Without outside stimuli I can focus on myself and getting better. And Dr. Quinzel is quite astute.” 

Oswald seemed at a loss for words. He pressed back in his chair, pursing his lips together, his eyes darting as he apparently mulled his thoughts over. “What made you come here?” he asked suddenly. 

Riddler fell silent. 

Oswald leaned forward, his cold blue eyes narrowed in sight of his prey. “Curious things are happening in the Narrows. Information flow seems to have dried up, harder to get in or out. But the rumors are that Doc Thompkins survived yet another assassination attempt, some weeks ago, a stabbing this time. What do you make of that, Ed?”

“I’d say she has a very dangerous job,” he replied, feigning nonchalance. 

A smile split Oswald’s face. “Well, aren’t _you_ the rogue! I always thought she’d toss you aside but it was you who left her side, wasn’t it? Did you finally realize she was using you for her own ends?”

“Be quiet, Oswald,” he snapped, irritated. “You’re the last person to be criticizing anyone else for using someone. Butch has been at your back since Fish Mooney fell and you didn’t think twice about putting him down just to hurt Tabitha.” 

“That’s the way of it then,” he shot back. “For men like us, we can’t afford to be encumbered. Isn’t that what you said, Mr. _Cold Logician_?” 

He had said that, hadn’t he? It was easy to claim the necessity for solitude and isolation but to put it into practice was something else entirely. He growled in frustration and didn’t restrain himself from pushing his glasses out of the way and anxiously rubbing at his eyes. 

Oswald was silent as he did all this. After a moment, he said, “If you’re still the same man who believes that then we have something to gain from each other.” 

Riddler let his hands drop and regarded Oswald, uncomprehending. “What?” 

“I don’t know what went down between you and Lee and I don’t care but its obvious you’re treating your stay here as some kind of penance. Well, I don’t think you need to repent. She’s out there, queening over her ragtag little kingdom - that you helped her gain, may I add - and you’re in here, wasting away in body and mind. It’s a disgrace.” Oswald leaned forward, the intensity in his eyes ramping up to match his words. “All you have to do is say the word and I’ll get you out of here.” 

He couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t a tempting offer. To be free of this place with its oppressive walls and menacing air would be a blessing but even if he had his freedom, what would he do with it? If he returned to the places most familiar to him, he would fall back into the second-in-command role, either the Knight to Lee’s Queen or the right hand man of Oswald’s King. Though he couldn’t deny the pleasure of being needed, relied on, he had to forge his path forward without leaning on those he loved. 

“No, Oswald,” he said clearly and raised his gaze to meet that of his best friend’s. “I’ll be staying here until I’m better.”

Oswald’s lip curled in displeasure. “How disappointing to learn you’re as stupid and witless as your original self. Really I expected more from you, Riddler.” 

He clenched his fists and resisted the urge to rise to Oswald’s bait. “Your expectations are your own burden,” he replied coolly. As splotchy red patches of anger colored Oswald’s cheeks, he couldn’t help but smile at the expression. “I know you’re angry but that’s a very cute look on your face.” 

Immediately, the dark cloud of anger lifted from Oswald’s face and he looked startled at Riddler’s proclamation. He merely smiled, shaking his head. What would Oswald say if he told him about his clandestine night out? He’d be jealous, no doubt, maybe even more than usual when he learned his partner had been some random man. He’d save that revelation for another time. 

“If that’s all,” he spoke suddenly with the finality of one intending to bring a conversation to a close. “I’m sure you have more important things to do with the rest of your day. And I could use a rest.”

“Edward.” The call is soft and when he catches Oswald’s eyes, he sees something there, a hesitation that implies a hint of vulnerability. And just as quick as he registered it, the look was gone, replaced with Oswald’s typical churlishness. “As you please,” he said stiffly and stood up. He abruptly began pulling his coat back on and his jerky motions belied his irritation. Riddler wanted to still Oswald’s yanking hands, cover them with his own but he resisted the urge to reach out and touch his friend. He doubted the other man in his present mood would appreciate the gesture. 

When Oswald was situated, redressed, the hard set of his mouth told Riddler that Penguin was in the house and any attempt at pacification would be rebuffed. So he sat back and didn’t react when the coldness in his friend’s eyes skewered him. 

“Stay here and rot for all I care,” Oswald said venomously. “But if you do get out don’t dare come crawling to me.” 

He felt his temper rise but did a good job of keeping it in check. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” he assured solidly, wanting to display the same cold apathy. He didn’t imagine he did a good job of it though as he felt Charisma and Eddie shiver within him with the sudden urge to placate and make nice. Bloodlust had his back though, turning up his nose with the same stubborn avoidance and putting steel in Riddler’s spine. 

Oswald made a noise of disgust and trudged around the table. Riddler kept his gaze fixed on the tabletop and didn't turn to watch the guard open the gate to let Oswald out. Subconsciously, he tensed up, waiting for one final insult to bury its way between his shoulderblades. When the silence extended and he finally realized that Oswald hadn't even thought him worthy of a parting comment, his dark mood sank even lower. 

"Riddler?" Dr. Quinzel's soft voice behind him. 

He took a deep breath and stood up, still with his back to her. He needed a moment spent clenching his fists and trying to quiet the noise of his other selves and their emotions. 

"I'm tired," he said dismally. "I'm going back to my cell."

When he turned, Quinzel was standing in his path and wearing an obstinate expression. “I understand if you don’t want to talk right now,” she said patiently. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now.” 

He felt a flash of irritation and sneered nastily, “Why? You think I’m gonna kill myself if you take your eyes off me?”

“No,” came the emphatic response. “I just don’t want you to sit with your pain. It isn’t strength to pretend like you’re not hurt right now.” 

He felt she was pretty audacious in trying to tell him his own emotions. It only mildly annoyed him that she was right. 

He’d said that he’d follow her lead. And suddenly, he felt too tired to protest further. 

“Okay,” he said simply. 

“Go to the music room,” she instructed. “I’ll grab your headphones and follow after.” 

He walked past her on rigid legs. The hallways were empty, all evidence of Penguin’s visit gone and it all felt like an unpleasant dream. 

_Did you finally realize she was using you for her own ends?_

He subtly clenched his jaws and tried to ignore the thoughts of violence that were beginning to bounce around in his head. He thought of the first trap he’d laid for Penguin, in which he’d gotten the man tied down, helpless, while a drum of acid dangled overhead. He should like to recreate that one, lose the acid and ice block, but definitely keep the rope. The thought of binding him up and leaving him to wriggle in vain was a satisfying one. 

He entered what the doctor had dubbed the music room. It was a slightly larger space that they sometimes utilized when the inmates were watching a movie or putting on a performance. The only musicals things in the room were one battered old stereo and two aged pianos on either side of the makeshift stage. He made his way to the left side one and pulled off the sheet covering. A light cloud of dust escaped into the air and he swatted through it with quick, chopping motions. 

Once he sat and ran his fingers over the board, he found the keys cold. He cracked his knuckles swiftly and tapped out a child's scale, some lilting little tune that minimally soothed some of his frazzled nerves. He focused on the keys, his fingers blurring over the black and white as he gradually shifted to pieces requiring more skill. He sometimes practiced by ear by playing instrumental covers of the songs Quinzel had supplied him with. He did this now with a tune dancing in his mind. 

When he heard the sound of high heels behind him, he decreased the pressure on the keys, letting the melody drift softly but he continued to play. He momentarily stuttered with his movements when he felt a soft hand on his left shoulder. She didn’t move it away and he continued to play, emboldened by the simple touch. He noticed that she often kept her distance during sessions. They rarely touched, unless she was offering comfort and now was no different. In his mind, he thanked her, and ignored the nagging urge that he ought to feel pathetic for being so moved by a simple touch. 

His playing only paused slightly when he felt her shift aside the hair that hung over his right ear so that she could gently push one of her Bluetooth earphones into his ear. Then she leaned forward, pressing against his back, to place the MP3 player atop the piano. He had to focus to keep from getting distracted by her scent, a delightfully strange and calming mix of lemon and lavender. There was already music playing and he tapped the E key as he listened, preparing to switch over to what he was hearing. 

His new library had approximately three hundred songs of various genres. He'd gotten acquainted with a band called Dance Gavin Dance that was usually hit or miss but that he liked nonetheless. They were playing now, a song called Care that he hummed along to and played the piano version to complement the guitars blaring in his ear. 

_I know you're not empty.  
I know you're still there.  
I know you're not empty  
I know  
You still care_

He let his fingers dance the wild beat over the keys as he nodded his head along to the beat and he began to sing along in a lowered voice, “I never wanted to be caught up in not looking back. I never wanted to be treated like a psycho. I never wanted to be singing about you again. But you keep locked in your possession over my soul.” He licked his lips quickly. “Goddamn, you caught me looking back. Goddamn, with no discretion.” He felt his voice cracking but pushed on. “Goddamn, you got me going mad. Goddamn, it's an obsession.”

He played along to a repeat of the chorus, played harder now, before ending the song on a hard-pressed G note that faded into silence. While the music continued, he gently plucked the keys and addressed Dr. Quinzel, “How much of that did you hear?” 

A moment’s pause then, “All of it.” 

He nodded, having expected little else. 

“I’m proud of you.” 

His fingers stuttered to a halt as he blurted “Huh?” in profound confusion. 

“I said I’m proud of you. For not taking advantage of his offer and trying to escape. You’re showing that you’re committed to your treatment.” 

He wondered what she’d have to say if he revealed he’d gone beyond the asylum walls last night. 

“What do you think about what he had to say? Did it surprise you to see him?”

He resumed his playing, going softer so he could hear and be heard over the sound of the keys. “A little surprised,” he admitted. “Though I shouldn’t have been. Information has a way of leaking no matter how tightly one attempts to seal it. It doesn’t surprise me that he came down here to gloat since I left him locked up in the vault of Gotham Savings.” 

“But in your encounter before that, you broke him out of Arkham and he saved you from being killed by Sofia Falcone’s men.” 

“Yeah, we’re pretty hot and cold like that,” he admitted. 

“He made quite a few references to Lee Thompkins. Even though the three of you briefly allied to take down Sofia Falcone, his hostility towards her continues. Why do you think he dislikes her so?” 

“He’s likely to act that way towards anyone I show affection towards. He’s obviously the jealous type."

“Does that bother you?”

He stopped his playing and turned around on his seat to face her. “Of course it does,” he answered honestly. “If not for his jealousy, Isabella would still be alive. And who knows where we’d be then? But I can’t deny that it’s just a little flattering. At least he cared enough to come, even if it was just to gloat.” 

“You think his presence here, petty and antagonistic as it was, is preferable to not showing at all?” 

Riddler shrugged. “Any break from the monotony is preferable. And in a place like this any brief spot of light in the dark is welcomed.” 

She made a brief note then addressed him “Why not escape then?” she asked. 

“Because I’m not right yet,” he replied, frustration edging into his voice. “My mind is still not whole. And besides, I don’t need Oswald’s help to escape this place.” He weighed his options and decided to go for broke. He didn’t reason there was much trouble he could get into. “I did just fine last night.” 

“What happened last night?” Dr. Quinzel asked, leaning forward. 

“I got out of here," he answered, unconcerned. “And had a relaxing evening on the town.”

She blinked for a moment, watching him, before she set down her pen and folded her hands in her lap. "Where did you go, Riddler?" 

"Uptown, to a jazz bar. It was a welcome change of scenery."

"How did you escape?"

He shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. I don't remember going to sleep and when I came to, I was standing in the club's bathroom."

Her brow knit together in concern. "What was the name of the bar?"

"Adeline's."

He watched as she took out her phone and began tapping swiftly on the screen. After a few seconds, she looked up at him, an incredulous expression on her face. "The club is an hour away from here."

"Yes, and?"

She fidgeted, tucking hair back behind her ears. "Your hallucinations were on thing. This - this moving about in a fugue state - is something else. I'm concerned, to say the least, that you were able to travel so far while disassociating."

"Why?"

"The first time your body moved without knowledge or consent was when you were hiding Kristen Kringle's body. The next time you hired an assassin and set them on Lee Thompkins. I don't want a repeat of that or something worse happening to you." 

"Something worse?" 

"Which one of the personalities was responsible for the break out? If I had one guess, I'd say it was Eddie."

"Very perceptive, Doctor."

"Now consider: next time it could be Bloodlust and you could wake up next to a body."

He fell quiet, giving the thought some consideration while Bloodlust grumbled in irritation. Up until now, he'd treated his mental lapses as nothing more than an annoyance and hadn't thought of the larger implications. What if he awoke one day and found himself standing on the edge of a rooftop, preparing to jump? What if he hurt or killed someone and had no recollection of the act? 

That thought was a disturbing one. If he was going to be a murderer then that would have to be a conscious and consenting decision. He turned away from the doctor and faced the keys again, tapping out a slow and mournful tune. 

Behind him, he heard Dr. Quinzel stand and a moment later, she joined him on the piano bench. He scooted over to make room for her and she sat next to him and gave his arm a brief squeeze before she trailed her fingers over the keys. She had no musical experience but he had taught her a little, mostly identifying the keys and simple scales. She applied this knowledge and played a basic refrain, a few light and airy notes played during the pauses of his more somber portions. It wasn't great playing but he was happy nonetheless for an activity that required brain power and dexterity. As they played together, he glanced at Quinzel while she plucked away and felt a peculiar fondness for the young woman. He wondered briefly if his feelings towards her were inappropriate. The idea of leaning over and kissing her was fleeting and dismissed just as quickly as purely ridiculous. His feelings were not romantic; he was just happy for her assistance and grateful for her validation. 

After a few minutes of playing, she spoke: "Tell me about your night out."

Though he hesitated, her tone was calm and neutral, not accusatory. Previously, he had thought to keep his evening to himself but to tell another person would be a relief. And he did value her insights after all. So he told her, starting with waking up in the club bathroom and ending with his return to the asylum. She listened quietly without interruption and when he finished, she gave a small sigh. "So, sounds like a few things to unpack."

"My only real issue is your substance use. I have you on a carefully measured regimen of medicine and you drinking alcohol and taking recreational drugs is not going to help that. And with your history, I worry that you are more susceptible to abuse of these stimulants."

"I had three drinks and popped a single pill," he pointed out. "I'd hardly call that abuse."

"Maybe so but you have a history of more extreme dependence. Didn't you tell me you were taking psychotropics that you did not need after you thought you'd killed Oswald?"

He pouted quietly.

"I'm willing to believe it was a one-off but it's something I think you should keep a watchful eye on. It has the possibility of growing into a real problem, if you're not mindful."

"Okay, Doctor." It was an easy enough thing to agree on as he did not think he had a budding drug problem.

"Now, onto the fun parts." She was smiling and had done away with her sober, lecturing voice. Now, he got the distinct impression they were friends about to engage in a session of gossip. "Just _who_ is Foxy?" she asked mischievously. 

"Lucius Fox," he clarified. "After I got sent here the first time, he left his job at Wayne Enterprises and began working for the GCPD. I'm not sure of his official title but he's the new science guy." 

She looked at him, tilting her head slightly. "Are you jealous or resentful or him for assuming a position you used to occupy?"

Riddler laughed incredulously. "Certainly not! There's no love lost between me and the GCPD. If that's where he wants to work, more power to him. Personally, I don't know how he can stand to be in that building of morons. I always hated it."

"You sound like you think of him rather favorably." 

"I do," he admitted. "Lucius is a man of exceptional intellect and observation. As the second smartest man in Gotham, I can think of no one more appropriate to be my successor." 

"That's rather high praise, coming from you," she pointed out. 

"I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true. Lucius is…" He sighed softly. "He is not like anyone I've ever met. He reminds me of myself sometimes."

"In what way?"

"We are both highly intelligent and analytical, relying more on brain power than brawn. He is charismatic in his own way, a way much quieter than my own. And he is possessed of a particular dignity that I have always admired. He's kind and would never abuse his power." 

"High praise indeed!" Quinzel commented. "He sounds like someone who could be a positive influence. Why not pursue a closer friendship? You both sound like two sides of a coin." 

"It's not something I'm opposed to but…" He trailed off as he dragged a finger across the piano keys. "I don't think Lucius would go for it. He doesn't trust me after the whole fake poisoning thing." 

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Quinzel asked, staring at him. 

And so he had to relay that particular tale of trapping Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox in the undergrounds of the asylum and torturing them for information. As he recounted the story, he recalled Lucius’ steadfastness. There was a saying he knew of: in the last moments of a person’s life, they show you who they really are. When Lucius thought he was going to die, he didn’t panic, sob or beg for his life. He remained a pillar of dignity, using his last moments to offer comfort to young Bruce in spite of his own real fears. He remembered how he’d taunted and tormented the pair and felt a spike of shame. Though he’d known they weren’t in any real mortal danger his glee at the time seemed particularly inappropriate in retrospect. 

For him to befriend a man like Lucius Fox, after all he’d done, would be much more than he felt he deserved. 

Harleen listened closely, taking mental notes and trying to form a complete picture of her patient. She had been listening and treating him for weeks and kept coming up on new behaviours, patterns that added to the man in her care. He was complex and contradictory, to a fault. Stringently polite from having etiquette drilled into him in childhood but equally capable of the mean-hearted pettiness also commonly seen in children. If he could break some of his more self-destructive tendencies, he’d be better for it, she just _knew_. 

She kept her private musings to herself. Instead, she politely covered her mouth and the chuckle that came from it. 

“What?” he asked, confused. 

“I’m sorry, I had something of an unkind thought.” 

“I’ll forgive you if you tell me what it was.” 

“Just that...I think you were previously in some serious denial of your sexuality. Which is fine, it doesn’t click into place as easily for some people.” 

“What gave you that impression?” he asked. 

She gave him a flat, almost skeptical stare. “You nicknamed another man _Foxy_ and you’re still trying to tell yourself you’re straight?” 

He stared at her for a few seconds before he smiled, rolling his eyes. “That’s hardly an indicator of anything. What other name would I have given him?” 

“The fact that you gave him one at all! Usually, nicknames are given out of affection or familiarity. Since you’re not particularly close, I’ll assume it was fondness that spun up the name.”

He listened and sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “Okay, maybe I sometimes have a habit of overlooking something that should be obvious.” 

“Just a little,” she teased. “So, tell me more about this young man Thor. Obviously, I’d wish you to make such decisions while sober and clear-headed but all the same. What are your feelings on the whole encounter?”

“It was an impulse decision,” he said, by way of dismissal. ‘I have a suspicion that if I’d been sober, I wouldn’t have liked the young man as much. But it was enjoyable all the same.”

“Previously, you seemed distressed at the idea that you may have romantic feelings for other men. Now, you seem much more comfortable with the idea. What do you think’s changed for you?” 

He went quiet for a moment, giving the question careful thought. “It feels like right now, I’m alone. I wanted a companion more than I was worried about feeling nervous. But under different circumstances, I don’t know if I can say I’d be as comfortable or forthcoming.” He thought it over then shrugged. “I don’t know how to navigate this new...path. I’m just taking it one day at a time.”

“That’s all any of us can do,” she said with a supportive smile. “I’m glad you’re willing to access this part of yourself. I will always encourage you to be your full, authentic self. However, that being said, I have a duty to inform the Warden of your whereabouts. He can’t do his job and provide adequate security and care if he doesn’t know about your breakout.” 

Riddler chuckled sardonically. “If you think that man cares anything about my wellbeing, you’re going to be disappointed, Doctor. All he cares about is lining his own pockets. He won’t do anything to restrict me because that’d interrupt the little kickbacks he’s getting. Bet you ten to one, he hears what you have to say and then just forbids you to talk about it. I’m sure there were quite a few NDA elements woven into your employee contract.” 

“Be that as it may,” she insisted. “I’ll have a word with him, all the same. Meanwhile, I’m going to restructure our next few sessions a bit. I’m not clear on the method just yet but it’s obvious, you need a little more stimulation to keep you occupied. I’m beginning to think the monotony you’re experiencing is causing your other personalities to act out which is making your disassociations stronger. If I can come up with something to engage all the parts of you, I think we can work towards making you whole again.” 

He liked the sound of that. Her optimism was welcomed; he was more than interested to see what she’d come up with. 

He was prepared to wait for her new, updated treatment method but he was interrupted. Three days after their initial conversation, he was disturbed from reading in his cell by the sudden appearance of two members of staff. 

“Up and at ‘em, Nygma,” the lead guard, a man named Lester Holt, commanded as he strode in. “Surprise inspection time.” Behind him, Peña trailed quietly in his wake. 

Riddler stood up, annoyed, shutting his book as he did so and the two proceeded to toss about his bedding and mattress. “I suppose there’s nothing more pressing to do but harass low-risk inmates, hm?” 

“Don’t like it? Complain to your buddy, the Warden,” Holt said gruffly as he shook out the bedsheets and let the linen float to the ground. “Looks in order, wouldn’t you say, Peña?” 

“All good here,” she confirmed as she balled up his pillow case and let it fall on his flat pillow strewn across the floor. “No contraband.” 

“Aw well. Guess we’ll just have to be more diligent in the future, huh?” Holt shot him a smug smirk before loudly trudging out of the cell. 

He rolled his eyes and moved to retrieve his bedsheet when Peña moved to his side and grabbed his wrist in a tight grip. When he faced her, she looked stressed and upset. 

“Listen, man, I’m not trying to get involved in any nonsense.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’m talking about whatever you and Penguin are into, I’m not interested. I need this job. I’m not trying to get caught up in any bullshit, understand? Leave me out of it.” She released him suddenly, gave him a final glare, and followed after her colleague out of his room. 

Thoroughly confused, he continued re-fixing his bed. When he grabbed the pillow case to put back on the pillow, he felt a conspicuous additional weight inside it. He reached into it and pulled out a small black Android phone, along with a short-wire charger wrapped in a single loop. Keeping one eye on the door, he sat on the bed with his knees drawn up to hide the phone. It was already activated, fully charged, and loaded with a few useful apps and puzzle games. He inspected the device, turning it over in his hand, and slid out the back to study the battery. 

On the inside of the phone’s back was a sticker of a smiling cartoon penguin. 

At the sight of it, he smiled brightly. 

_Oh, Oswald,_ he thought affectionately. _I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me._


	7. Stitched Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an update that's a long time coming. Sometimes I hit snags when it comes to some of the mental health stuff, as I'm not a professional, but I can't be doing too bad since this is still getting hits and a really nice comment was left recently. If you're still reading along, I hope you enjoy what I've put out and I hope you'll leave a comment saying so.

Riddler was excited to handle the bit of contraband he’d been smuggled. Arkham maintained its monotony by being largely cut off from the outer world; it was a struggle for him to get his hands on a newspaper. But now he had unlimited access to information and he was going to take full advantage of that. 

He started by scanning the news sites. Gordon graced the pages, having stopped a high-speed chase of some robbers the week before. He read about an arson in South Village, a handful of murders in Midtown, and a missing shipment of rare gems. The stories all coalesced to form a picture of a city that rarely stayed still. With a few weeks’ absence, Gotham had forgotten about him. He tried to ignore how much that bothered him but Depression manifested all the same, lazy and listless, in the corner. 

“How quickly they forget,” his sullen self sighed. 

“They’re fools with short attention spans,” Riddler tried to reason with himself. “Just like babies, the city’s rabble just stare at the shiniest display.” 

“Or we never mattered to start with,” Depression continued, morose. “Just this city’s villain of the week, interchangeable as a pair of pants.” 

“God, fucking cry over it!” Bloodlust was on the scene, pacing rapidly in front of their bed, gnashing his teeth. “Did you ever think people don’t like you because you’re whiny and insufferable?!”

Depression gave him an apathetic stare.

Charisma appeared, always the hero, and gave Bloodlust a disparaging look. “Yes, _he’s_ the dislikable one here,” he retorted, sarcastic. “Everyone just _loves_ you.” 

“Piss off,” Bloodlust replied flippantly. “Who the fuck asked you?” 

Riddler’s gaze bounced between the three of them as he blew out a low, exasperated breath. “You all are insufferable,” he muttered. His fingers slipped under his glasses to press into his eyelids as he tried to ground himself. He felt an acute sense of familiarity. How often had his torment reduced Ed into a twitching, panicked mess, yelling at specters? It felt strangely justifiable that he should put up with the same annoyance. Unlike Ed though, he wouldn’t let their mind break further. 

So he stopped searching for validation online. Confined to his cell, he preoccupied himself with exercise, the same that he and Dr. Quinzel often engaged in together. Push-ups, sit ups, jumping jacks, any physical movement that he could focus on and drown out the bickering of his other selves. It wouldn’t be enough to ignore them; he had to fix them. 

So the next day while he wandered the asylum, he kept an eye out for Quinzel.  
It wasn’t one of the usual days they met for therapy but he wanted to see her. She was one of only a few distractions afforded to him in this place, after all. 

Moving through the asylum, he finally found her in the recreation room. He was on the other side of the gates, looking in, and Quinzel didn’t see him. She sat at one of the long tables, facing one Jervis Tetch, adjacent to Aaron Helzinger, with an armed guard flanking her back. She was talking to Tetch whose mouth had been bound to keep him from using his powers of hypnosis. Helzinger was delicately plucking at the psychiatrist’s hair which she calmly tolerated. The guard was nearby to keep the whole thing from going sideways. 

Riddler settled into the corner and carefully observed the odd scene. Quinzel was new. He was her first patient but that didn’t mean he’d be her last. It’d make sense for her to start acquainting herself with some of the other inmates. He didn’t care to interrupt her; he’d bring his troubles to her another time. 

Luckily, he wouldn’t have long to wait. The next day after breakfast, Dr. Quinzel visited his cell and with her came Jervis Tetch. Just as the day before, the Mad Hatter’s mouth was gagged. He was bound at the wrist and ankle with a shortened chain that made him stoop over and shuffle along. He couldn’t use it as a weapon nor could he escape. As their eyes locked, the Hatter gave an exuberant wave and a polite bow. 

Riddler looked to Quinzel, curiosity etched onto his face. “What’s this then, Doctor?” 

She shut the door behind them and stood next to Tetch, hands on her hips. There was a particular light in her eyes that Riddler was curious to note. “I think Mr. Tetch here could be some use to you,” she declared. 

“How’s that?” he asked. 

“I think it’s possible to use his power of hypnosis to induce certain triggers that will access -” Here she cleared her throat softly. “- parts of your brain that require healing. With your consent, he would listen to some parts of your therapy and apply a hypnotic remedy that I’ve tailored.” 

He was unimpressed and let it show. “That’ll never work. There’s no way that hypnosis will work on me.” 

Tetch made a disgruntled noise and Quinzel smiled lightly. “You won’t know until we try. Besides, it won’t be his usual brand of hypnosis. I have other plans.” That gleaming light in her eye again, greedy for knowledge. 

“Even if he could,” Riddler continued. “How will you protect yourself? He could just as easily hypnotize you to slit your own throat so that he can escape. He’s done that before, you know.” 

Harleen grinned wide and it made her look inexplicably cute. “You let me worry about my own safety, okay? I’ve taken precautions.” She pulled from her pocket a small case that held a pair of Bluetooth earbuds. “Mr. Tetch will be wearing these during the parts of your therapy you don’t want him to hear. They are completely soundproof so your privacy is assured. At the time when Mr. Tetch needs to speak, I’ll take the earbuds so that he can’t use his powers on me. I will make sure he’s not implanting anything untoward in your brain by my phone’s speech to text feature. That way I don’t expose myself to his voice but I make sure that the situation stays safe.” 

Beside her, Tetch shrugged then gave a thumbs up. 

“This is a strange idea,” he admitted. “But I’m interested. Let’s do it.” 

Quinzel clapped her hands together in a burst of delight. “Excellent!” She adjusted her glasses and looked to Tetch. “Mr. Tetch, I thank you for your cooperation. Please return to your cell and I’ll be along later to update you with the particulars.” 

Tetch nodded and shuffled towards the door. Before he moved too far, Riddler interjected with, “It’s nice to think a fellow would do a good deed. I’d hate it if your true aim was to mislead.” 

Tetch’s eyes crinkled with a smile. He looked at Quinzel and pantomimed writing. She handed him her clipboard and pulled a felt tip Sharpie from her breast pocket. The Hatter bent over, awkwardly using his thigh as a surface top while he scribbled with a concentrated effort. Then he straightened and held up his message for Riddler to see, four words written under each other, the letters curved and cartoon-ish. 

_Us crazies stick together_

Riddler caught the other man’s eye and Tetch gave him a wink before Quinzel moved between them, hastily taking back her clipboard and marker. “Not a term I encourage you to use, Mr. Tetch,” she commented. “If you please?”

Tetch took his leave and Riddler adjusted his glasses as he surveyed his psychiatrist. “You’ve got a kind of manic light in your eye, Doc.” 

That made her cough delicately, closing her eyes and regaining her more reserved, professional persona. “I _am_ excited,” she admitted. “I’ve been doing a bit of extensive reading, trying to form the best plan for your mental health. The brain is a _fascinating_ organ and in my position here, I’m able to attempt somewhat unorthodox methodology to cure your problem.” 

“So, you’re looking forward to experimenting on me then?” he quipped. 

She gave him a wry look. “I’m no Hugo Strange. You’ve placed yourself in my care and so you can expect to get the height of treatment that I’m able to supply. Trust me, Edward, you’re in good hands.” 

He blinked, staring at her. “That’s the first time you called me Edward.” 

“Does that bother you?” 

She moved to retrieve the chair from its place against the wall. That and her tone told Riddler she was slipping into work mode. He, in turn, returned to his place on his cot. Forgoing formality, he stretched out into a reclining position. Internally, Charisma squawked at his casual air but he ignored his other self.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he said finally after getting settled. “I think I’m less inclined to be a stickler about how I’m addressed in here.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

He scoffed. “I have enough of a chance as being identified as Abraham Lincoln as I do my preferred designation. Currently, my name isn’t a hill I want to die on.”

“Maybe we can discuss that further. Why is it important to you, to be addressed properly?”

“I don’t think you’d enjoy it if people started calling you Hailey when that’s not your name. I’m the same way.”

“You maintain that you and Edward are separate entities,” she clarified.

“I do,” he answered.

“What makes you separate?” she wondered aloud.

“Ed doesn’t have my nerve. Without me, he goes back to the same meek, uninteresting nobody he was before I emerged.”

“Before you killed Kristen Kringle?” she asked.

“Yes, before then,” he said. 

“Do you feel like your life has improved since that moment?” she asked. 

“I mean, on a macro scale, yes,” he said. He leaned back against the wall, his attention unfocusing from her. “I realized my true potential. I was set to truly soar.” 

“What derailed you?” Harleen asked pointedly. 

“_Love_,” he spat contemptuously. “Immediately after my first release from Arkham, I fell in with Oswald in his mayoral bid. That was fine up until the appearance of Isabella. I let her presence blind me. I thought I could live a life with her. But that was foolish. Oswald cured me of those inclinations.” 

“But you wanted to kill Oswald for what he did to Isabella,” she pointed out. 

“He shouldn’t have,” he retorted. “It wasn’t his place to interfere in my relationship. I know why he did it; he loves me. But it wasn’t his place.” 

“So Oswald made himself your enemy. And that, in sequence, made you turn to Lee.” 

“I knew she wouldn’t want to help me,” he confessed softly. “After what I did, killing Kristen and framing Jim… For Gods’ sake, she lost her baby because of me.” 

Harleen’s head snapped up, his gaze focusing on him entirely. “Her baby? Would you elaborate please?”

“She was pregnant,” he said lowly. “When I framed Jim for the murder of Officer Pinkney. The stress of his trial and incarceration made her miscarry and lose the child.” 

Harleen’s mouth had opened in an expression of surprise before she covered the look with one of sympathy and concern. “You sound like you regret your actions very much.” 

He met her eyes. “Semantics on whether a fetus is considered a child aside… I _don’t_ kill kids.” 

“That sounds like a moral hang-up,” Harleen said. “Though you’ve been called a sociopath by many others, you still have a moral code that tells you certain acts are wrong.” 

Riddler merely listened to her with interest. 

She continued with fresh energy. “This mental splinter you’re experiencing is not uncommon. It generally happens after a person has undergone a strong trauma. The mind splits in order to protect the psyche from the overwhelming effects of traumatic events. In your case, it was Lee Thompkins’ attack against you followed by your retaliation that caused the break. It can be mended but only through cognitive therapy with you and all your other perceived selves. This is where Mr. Tetch comes in. His powers of hypnosis will be able to influence your other selves and theoretically calm them enough to reconnect the edges of your psyche to theirs, thus healing the mental split you’ve suffered.” 

Riddler gave her an arch look. “Did you just make all that up?” 

She laughed a little. “I was up late reading a lot of textbooks about the brain.” 

“Why did you want to become a psychiatrist?” he asked. 

She crossed her legs at the knee and leaned back in her chair. “I suppose I’m interested in how the mind works. My family’s a little dysfunctional so wondering how they got like that was always a past time.” 

“Can’t be as bad as mine,” he challenged, encouraging her to speak further. 

“Let’s agree to disagree,” she said, effectively parrying the remark. “Now before we get too off track, I need to ask you about Lee Thompkins.” 

Instantly, the casual air between them grew tense. “Why?” Riddler asked, his voice low. 

“She’s the trigger for your latest break. It only makes sense that we discuss her.” A pause then. “Do you hate her?” Quinzel asked. “For what she did to you?” 

He scoffed lightly. “I try not to hold a grudge,” he said. His feelings for Lee were complicated. He was irritated that she’d gotten the best of him, used his skill to her advantage, and then cast him aside. _But…_ It was also all those things that drew him to her. She was more brilliant than he’d given her credit for. The fact that she’d pulled the wool over his eyes was something to be commended for. And to be mad for the other stuff would make him a hypocrite. He’d readily taken advantage of Grundy’s amnesia and super strength for his own advantage. He was guilty of the same things. 

“I don’t hate her,” he confirmed. “But what I feel…” He shook his head, irritated. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. So that’s done and buried.” 

“Why do you think she’s done with you?” Quinzel asked, her gaze on him intent and focused. 

“Oswald,” he answered. “Oswald learned where I was from Lee. Meaning she had the knowledge for who knows how long and has no inclination or desire to see me.” His hands fidgeted, fingers curling around each other anxiously. “Can’t say that I’m surprised,” he remarked bitterly. “I know I’m easy to discard.” 

“I don’t believe that in the least,” his psychiatrist replied stubbornly. “And I don’t think you do either.” 

He looked up, blinking at her. “Oh?” 

“You’re feeling bad for yourself,” she stated solidly. “And so you’re trying to convince yourself that you’re not worth fighting for even when you know that isn’t true. The people who care about you – who you allow to care about you - go up to bat for you. Oswald used his influence to free you from this place and then housed you in his father’s mansion. He didn’t discard you. And neither did Lee.” Her lips pressed together and she leaned back in her chair, arms folded on her crossed legs.

He blinked again, quickly registering her signs of discomfort. “Why do you say that, Dr. Quinzel?” he asked, eyes narrowed slightly. 

She shifted momentarily in her seat, stalled by tucking an errant blonde strand behind her ear before she spoke. “Lee Thompkins came here,” she declared, finally. “And I sent her away. I did not think seeing her would be good for your recovery.” 

Riddler felt as though he’d been punched. He had an impulsive urge to rub the scar on his stomach but he clenched his fists and resisted. “When?” he asked breathlessly. 

“One day before Oswald,” she answered quietly. “I intercepted her at the intake desk. We shared a few words before she left, forgoing her visit.”

He was still reeling a little from the revelation. He took a few deep breaths, trying to focus his thoughts and asked the first thing that came to mind. “How did she look?” 

“She was very well dressed,” Quinzel supplied. “But she looked tired, under strain. I advised her to devote some time to self-care.” 

“Why did she come? What did she say? What did _you_ say?” he fired at her in rapid succession. 

“When I asked her why she’d come, she refused to answer. But she asked – more than once – if you were well. She was a bit angry that I forbid her access to you. I didn’t reveal anything of your condition. I simply told her you admitted yourself and you would be with us until your health improved.” 

Riddler listened intently and when she finished, he slumped back, pressing his back to the wall. She’d come for him, he realized. Before Oswald. She hadn’t tossed him aside. He swallowed thickly as his hand unconsciously rubbed his stomach and the scar there. 

“She did that too.” 

His attention redirected to Quinzel as he looked up again. “Pardon?” 

“You both have the same haptic reaction, a hand on your stomach, I’m assuming, on the wound you inflicted on each other. I posit that your dual reactions are physical methods of remembering one another. It’d be romantic, if it were…healthier.” 

Riddler chuckled sardonically. “Perhaps I have a skewed idea of what could be considered romantic.” 

“May I see your scar?” 

He blinked in surprise at the sudden request but after a few seconds of deliberation, he was not opposed. He moved to stand and pulled up his shirt, exposing his midriff. Quinzel stood and crossed the short distance between them. She lowered herself to a crouch, adjusted her spectacles, and leaned in close. 

“A switchblade,” she recounted and the feel of her breath on his skin made him shiver. “Non-serrated, four inch blade…” 

“Felt a lot longer,” he said, joking. 

She reached out and touched him, one finger sliding down the small keloid. It felt…oddly pleasurable. He was letting his eyes close when something flashed in his periphery. It was an image of himself, which himself he couldn’t decipher, because the image flicked away as soon as he focused on it. 

_Shit, is it getting worse?_

He flinched back, taking a step away from her. 

“I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized. “I should have asked you if it still hurt.” 

“It’s okay,” he said softly. She hadn’t hurt him; on the contrary, his touch-starved senses yearned for more contact but he wouldn’t ask that from her. There was a line between personal and professional and Riddler wasn’t interested in blurring it, at least with Quinzel. 

Later that night, in his room, he pulled the covers over his head, curled into the fetal position and hugged his phone to him. He switched it off during the day when he couldn’t use it in the hopes to conserve power since charging it was a challenge. For now though, he pulled up Zahra’s Youtube channel and skipped over to her Instagram. Her posts were primarily selfies or photos of others with outrageous makeup that she’d designed and applied. The girl had talent but he scrolled through them, looking for something that would be relevant to him. He stopped at a video that looked like it was shot inside Cherry’s and pressed play. 

Zahra’s face dominated the screen, her plump lips painted an acid green that he was startingly pleased to see. Arkham was so drab and depressing and the pop of color gave an unexpected lift to his spirits.

“Y’all wanna see how we pass the time in the Narrows?” she challenged the audience. “Show ‘em, Roxy.” 

She switched the camera to another woman, graveyard pale with towering black and white hair. He recognized her as a regular at the dive bar; they might even have shared a drink back when Grundy reigned as champion. If he remembered right, she may have flirted with him and he brushed her off. 

Now, she grinned wide, shining silver piercings accentuating her black painted smile. Her left hand was planted splayed on the table in front of which she sat, and in her right hand was a long dagger. 

“Ohh!” Roxy began to sing, a jaunty beat “I have all my fingers, the knife goes chop, chop, chop!” On each beat, Roxy stabbed the space between her spread fingers. “If I miss the spaces in between, my fingers will come off! And if I hit my fingers, blood will soon come out! But all the same, I play this game ‘cause that’s what I’m all about. Ohhh- “

“Get ready for this shit,” Zahra said quickly. 

Roxy picked up the song and her speed, stabbing in a frightening flurry. “Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, I’m picking up the speed and if I hit my fingers than myhandwillstarttobleed!” 

As she finished, she stabbed the knife into the table and the surrounding patrons cheered and dollar bills fluttered, thrown into the air above Roxy’s head. She waved to someone offscreen, wiggling her fingers and cried, “Look Doc, I kept ‘em all!” 

The shot swung around and found Lee with a redheaded woman at the bar. He tapped the screen quickly to pause and take in her image. Cherry’s was dimly lit but Lee stood out as always, a dark angel in the night. She wore a black and blue striped shirt that hung off one of her shoulders and black leather pants hugged her legs. Her hair was still long, stopping at her waist, she still wore dark lipstick. Her manicure was a new addition. Riddler found himself staring at the inch-long stilettos and wondering if she’d managed to hide a blade or some other weapon in them. That would fit with her tricky manner. 

Flicking his gaze to her companion, he was surprised to see a familiar face. Lila, who he’d approached to be his assistant at the Riddle Factory. Lee had poached his talent! He should be annoyed but instead, he chuckled. _That woman… I really shouldn’t be surprised at anything she does._

He un-paused the video. Lee put one hand up to her mouth and blew a kiss and cried out, “Congratulations!” to the delight of the bar. He paused it again, freezing her in her jubilation. _It should be a crime to be so beautiful_, he thought idly. 

_Feeling nostalgic?_ Bloodlust’s voice sneered in his head. _You’re certainly a glutton for punishment._

Riddler rolled his eyes, instantly irritated with his other presence. _I’m not interested in your running commentary_, he thought sourly. Why did he have to be so persistently annoying? If Ed ever showed himself again, Riddler would… well, maybe not apologize, but definitely make some kind of amends for being such a pill in the past. 

_No, you’re only interested in her_, Bloodlust observed. _Just like before. But it’s not love, he hissed softly. Just lust. And I know how it burns in you, the desire to grab her and make her yours. Just like you taught Ed to do with Kristen. If we left,_ the voice lowered seductively, _you could have her in your arms again. Though she might stick you with a blade again. Did you like that? Having her penetrate you?_

Growling in irritation, he threw the covers off of his head. Bloodlust was kneeling, crouched next to the bed, a grin forming on his smug countenance. But behind him, Depression lingered in the corner. 

So Riddler sat up and focused his attention and his words on his quiet self. 

“She didn’t forget us,” he stated clearly, watching his other self for their reaction. “And neither did Oswald. We weren’t abandoned.” 

Depression met his gaze, a hint of uncertainty touching his face. 

Charisma materialized next and Riddler turned his attention on him. “She looked good, didn’t she?” he asked. “Very queenly.” 

“Oh yes,” Charisma quickly agreed. “I mean, she learned such regality from us, after all. But she wears it well.” 

“She does,” Riddler affirmed. He could see how his positivity was bothering Bloodlust so he endeavored to distract himself, to force away the morose cloud that his violent self brought whenever he materialized. 

“I wonder just how she and Oswald are clashing,” Riddler mused, running a hand through his hair. “Without us there, they must be at each other’s throats.” 

“A delightful altercation!” Charisma crowed. He moved to the bed and sat with a flourish, tossing his head back. “The so-called King of Gotham versus the Queen of the Narrows. When did our friends become such titans? And who shall triumph?” 

“What if he kills her?” Depression asked quietly, his hands wringing slightly. 

Riddler gave a sardonic chuckle. “You’re worried about _her_? Need I remind you she nearly sent _us_ to the grave? If it’s a knife match, both have shown their propensity to spill blood on the floor.” 

Charisma gave him a suggestive look. “You certainly have a type, don’t you? Dark and deadly seems to get your blood hot.” 

Riddler was surprised to be assessed by himself. He adjusted his glasses and looked at his flamboyant self with narrow eyes. “Don’t you mean we?” 

“No,” Charisma answered bluntly. “I meant you. That type doesn’t appeal to me. I…liked Kristen the most.” 

Riddler blinked in surprise. His rational mind knew that he was hallucinating all of this. But he was still taken by surprise to hear that this manifestation felt so dissimilarly. As if he was his own person. 

Charisma saw his shock and gave him a plaintive look. “We’re not the same, Riddler. We’re all just pieces of Edward Nygma’s persona. I am the bravest and the boldest of him. So it makes sense that I loved Kristen the most. I wanted to be her hero and protect her. You wanted her too,” he confirmed with a nod. “But you were also derisive of her. You didn’t love her like I did. You love the clever, sneaky types like Leslie and Oswald. You and him,” he said, nodding to Bloodlust and shifting his attention. His voice had gone low and smooth like velvet. “In fact, brother, I’d say _your_ desire for Lee Thompkins eclipses all of ours. You are lust personified, after all. You don’t think the rest of us could feel your desire as she stabbed her blade into you? And how you still grow hard when you relive the memory? You naughty masochist.” 

Riddler’s gaze shot to Bloodlust whose face had grown red with rage, the veins in his forehead extended and pulsing. He, however, did not refute Charisma’s claims. He whirled around and vanished in a temper. 

Riddler barked out a strangled laugh. It felt beyond bizarre to root for himself against himself. _Am I getting better or worse? I don’t know… Am I insane if I know I’m insane? Or am I just too far gone? Just how fucked up am I?_

“Best not to worry about it.” 

This came from Depression who had elected to walk over and join their little party on the bed. It was the first time he could remember the dour little doppelganger ever deigning to be a part of the conversation and the goings-on. As he sat, he gave a stretching yawn and for once he simply looked tired rather than drained and hopeless. 

“The mind breaks apart when it tries to understand itself,” Depression stated plainly. “It’s like a human fail safe mechanism. Kind of like how more intelligent people have higher rates of depression.” 

“The old ‘ignorance is bliss’ adage,” Charisma said, his hands fluttering. 

Depression yawned again and curled up at the foot of the bed like a cat. Riddler gave him an amused look. “Feeling better?” 

“A little,” the other him responded deadpan before he rolled over and vanished from sight. 

Charisma moved to sit in the freed space, kicking up his legs to cross at the knee. “So!” he started conversationally. “How do we feel about Dr. Quinzel’s creative new methods?” 

“She’s…peculiar,” he said softly. “In a way I can’t really explain. She’s not the same ilk as Professor Strange but maybe…a similar model.” 

“Do you think she’s dangerous?” Charisma asked quietly. 

“No, I don’t get a sense of that,” he said. “She seems devoted and eager to help but there’s just something about her I can’t put my finger on.” 

Inexplicably, Charisma grinned. “Don’t worry too much,” he said with a satisfied nod. “Whatever’s going on with her, I’m sure we’ll figure it out soon enough.” He gave a cheeky wink before he too blinked out of sight. 

Alone, without his other selves’ chatter, Riddler felt victorious and more cheered than he’d been in days. He had new therapy methods on the horizon, he’d learned his friends still cared for him, and he and the others effectively shut down Bloodlust. He was going to ride this wave of positivity and hope for better things. 

The next morning when he awoke, he was focused in his intent. He climbed out of bed, did a series of brief stretches, before he went off in search of Jervis Tetch. 

The inmates were shuffling along the hallways, heading to the mess hall for breakfast. Riddler moved against the flow, cutting through the halls to D Block, where the rowdier inmates were kept. He would have missed Tetch in the crowd were it not for his conspicuous paper hat. Riddler reached out and grabbed the other man’s arm and got a look of annoyance for his trouble. 

“I’m heading to break my fast, if you don’t mind,” Tetch said with a sniff. “There’ll be nothing left if I’m last, you’ll find.” 

“Then I’ll only take a moment of your time,” Riddler responded. “If you please, Mr. Tetch.” 

Tetch relented with a huff and let himself be led back into his cell. Riddler shut the door behind them and cast a critical eye over the shorter man. 

Jervis Tetch gave him a wide smile. “Are you so eager to start your therapy early, Mr. Nygma? I was led to believe we’d get into it a little later.” 

“Funny you should bring that up. I spent the better part of the night wondering why you’ve suddenly become so helpful.” 

“And did you come up with any reasonable explanations?” Tetch asked delicately, pulling at the sleeves of the dark shirt he wore under his Arkham issued uniform. 

“The first and most obvious: you must want something. I think it’s to our mutual benefit to organize an exchange. Your hypnosis talents for…whatever I can offer you.” 

Tetch made a satisfied noise and crossed his arms while giving Riddler an up-and-down look. 

“It’s very easy,” Tetch started. “To see who has the most influence in a place like this. When Jerome was here, he had all the guards running at his beck and call. I see the same kind of influence in you. You show up here one night, no fanfare, and seem to have an unprecedented amount of freedom. I wonder how you got that.” 

“Are you here to wonder at my machinations or to get something you want?” he shot back. 

Tetch’s smile became a grin. “I like you,” he declared. “You’re not one for wasting time. What I want from you is a phone call. The guards here don’t allow me visitors or calls. I’m hoping that you might be able to circumvent that.”

Riddler gave this a bit of thought. It’d be easy to pass along his contraband phone but he let Tetch think it was mulling it over. 

“I think I can make that happen for you. On the condition that you don’t intentionally try to derail my therapy sessions. That’s all I ask.” 

“Then we’re in agreement,” Tetch said cheerfully, extending his hand for Riddler to shake. 

Riddler grasped the other man’s hand in his and tightened his grip. “I hope that that phone call won’t lead to more nefarious acts,” he said carefully. 

Tetch retained his pleasant smile. “Is your help contingent upon telling you my plans, Mr. Nygma?” 

“Certainly not. I just don’t want to get caught up in whatever happens.” 

“You’ll be given ample warning,” Tetch reassured, dropping his hand back to his side. “I wouldn’t concern myself with the details. Now, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to make it to breakfast before they stop serving food.” 

Riddler moved aside and swept his arm out to clear the way. 

They went to the mess hall together but Riddler separated from Tetch once he’d gotten his food. He was hungry but today, the usual Arkham fare was not appetizing. He pushed around his runny powdered eggs and pouted for want of decent food. Lately, he’d been dreaming about the meals he’d create once he had free run and access to a kitchen again. His dreams were starting to sour his reality. 

His disappointment was interrupted by the clear tapping of high heels. He looked over his shoulder as Dr. Quinzel approached. She wore a red and white polka dotted shirt over loose black pants. She seemed to only dress in those three colors. 

“Good morning, Edward,” she said pleasantly as she adjusted her glasses. “Sleep well?” 

“As well as one can in this place,” he replied, giving her a humorless smile. “What can I do for you, Dr. Quinzel?” 

“Well, it can wait until you finish breakfast.” 

He gave her a skeptical look and tossed down the fork he’d been poking with. “I was finished before I sat. Sadly, the meals in my dreams are making my real life options less than savory.” 

Her eyes brightened and she smiled calmly. “In that case, come with me and I’ll see if I can do something about that.”

Interested, Riddler stood and Quinzel walked off. He left his tray, assuming Helzinger or some other resident would claim it, and followed after her. As he went, he saw Jervis Tetch, head bowed over his tray, his eyes clearly tracking their progress. 

Once they cleared the mess, Riddler fell in step beside Quinzel as they made their way down the now quiet halls. “What’s on the agenda, Doctor?” 

Quinzel gave him a sideways look and a sneaky smile. “A field trip,” she answered. “Well, not as fun as that but it is a little time out of the asylum.” 

“Where would we be going?” he asked, his curiosity rising. 

“To Gotham General. I think it’s necessary to get a look at your brain so I’ve scheduled you for an MRI.” 

“Oh, fun. A medical procedure, what more could a guy ask for.” Though he responded with sarcasm, he was thrilled at the idea of getting out of the asylum. “When is this trip supposed to take place?” 

“Right now!” she replied gleefully. “That is, after you’ve showered and dressed.” 

He was surprised at the speed of this request. “Has the Warden signed off on this?” 

“Of course,” Harley answered, looking at him. Though she blinked innocently enough, something about her straightforward gaze led him to believe she wasn’t being truthful. 

He didn’t voice his suspicions. He went to get showered and changed, aching to be out in the fresh air and sunlight. 

About thirty minutes later, he was ready to go. He was dressed in his usual sweatpants and plain white tee but they’d supplied him with ugly white sneakers and a gray fleece zip up hoodie. It was late September and the air was starting to get chilly. He was loaded into the prisoner transport van and shackled at wrist and ankle to the floor of the vehicle. Two Arkham guards inhabited the driver’s and passenger’s seat up front but Dr. Quinzel chose to ride in the back with him, dismissing the guard’s warnings. He was simultaneously excited to be out of Arkham and annoyed at being in the windowless van, unable to see the passing scenery. 

But the ride was mercifully brief. Before long, they pulled to a stop and Quinzel threw open the van doors, letting in the air and light. Riddler inhaled a deep breath before he stood and made his way to her. Quinzel unchained his ankles from the floor and discarded the restraints but the cuffs around his wrists stayed locked. She gave him an apologetic look before she tossed a shirt over his cuffs. If he held his hands folded together, the handcuffs were effectively hidden from view. 

Quinzel looped her arm around his and marched them into the hospital. It was late morning so the waiting room was, luckily, rather barren. Riddler sat with the Arkham guards hovering protectively nearby while Dr. Quinzel spoke at the front desk to get him checked in. He turned his attention to the TV displaying the news. They were currently running some puff piece praising Wayne Enterprises over its hosting of a charity for the city’s disabled. He promptly tuned out the broadcast and waited to be admitted. 

Some minutes later, Quinzel came to collect him. Led by a nurse, they followed her into an elevator that let out on the fourth floor. They went down a hall and stopped outside two double doors. Quinzel and the nurse went in to address the doctor while Riddler stayed outside with the guards. Bored, he let his eyes wander the sparse halls before a familiar figure caught his attention and made him straighten up. 

“Lucius!” 

Lucius had been walking along, head bowed as he perused a folder of information. At the sound of his name, his eyes shot up and he came to a halt, clearly as surprised as Riddler. 

“Ed, hey,” he said. He took a step toward them and one of the guards stepped forward.

“Sorry, sir but you’ll have to stay back.” 

At Lucius’ look of confusion, Riddler sighed, now regretting speaking up. With no other choice, he shifted the shirt that covered his handcuffs and brought his wrists up into view. 

“Stay back,” he warned mockingly. “Don’t you know I’m dangerous?” 

Lucius’ expression softened but he still managed to look reproachful. He addressed the guard. “I’d like to have words with this patient. I think between the two of you, you can keep him in check. And if all else fails, I’m well versed in jiujitsu.” 

The guard shrugged, apparently disinclined to enforce his own rules. “Fine, whatever.” 

Lucius stepped past the man to a pair of seats bolted to the wall. He took the one on the right and Riddler took the left. He rattled his chains and gave Lucius a self-deprecating smile. “I’m going to get embarrassed if you keep seeing me looking less than my best.” 

Lucius looked a little surprised then shook his head with a smile. “Those are wonderful priorities you’ve got there.” His expression grew considering as his eyes scanned up and down. “Have you been injured?” Lucius asked. 

“Well, yes but also, no,” he replied, chuckling a little at Lucius’ curious look. “Today, I’m only here for some brain scans.” 

“Are you worried you’ll find something malignant?”

He shrugged casually. “I’d say that’s between me and my doctors.” 

“Of course,” Lucius said quickly, leaning back in his seat. “I shouldn’t have pried.” 

“No worries,” he replied cheerfully. 

“Are you…” Lucius’ eyes scanned the guards around them before landing back on Riddler. “You’re in custody of Arkham?” 

“That’s right,” he answered. “And I have been for some time.” 

He could easily see the question on Lucius’ face – the other man wanted to know how it is they’d shared conversation the other night if he was under Arkham rule but Lucius didn’t ask. He was not willing to give up Riddler’s activity by questioning him out loud. He was, in a way, protecting him. 

This unexpected encounter was proving as pleasurable and distracting as the first a few nights prior. The only missing component was his recreational drug and alcohol use but Lucius was interesting and engaging enough without the reliance on such substances. “But here’s a question for you: do you really know jiujitsu?” 

“I do,” Lucius answered, straightening up in his seat. “With the right focus and dedication, I obtained my black belt.” 

“_Really?_” he asked breathlessly, not quite understanding why this revelation fascinated him. Somewhere within him, Bloodlust roused and took notice. 

“I actually learned it because of you,” he said, meeting Riddler’s eyes. 

“Me? How so?” 

“After your – ah, introduction to Gotham, I figured it was smart to learn a mode of self-defense.” Though he spoke of a darker time, his tone was light-hearted. “Imagine my surprise when I proved adept at it.” 

He wanted to say several things at once: apologize for the thump on the head he’d delivered that had knocked Lucius unconscious, inquire about the other man’s training regimen, and tease him about becoming a man of violence. (Eddie, Bloodlust, and Charisma’s reactions, no doubt.) He didn’t get a chance to choose his response because Dr. Quinzel reemerged, throwing open the doors with a flourish. 

“Alright, we’re ready to begin,” she announced before her gaze landed on Riddler and Lucius sitting together. “Well, hello,” she said, eyebrows raised as she approached. 

The two men stood and Riddler made the necessary introductions. “Doctor, this is my colleague, Lucius Fox. Lucius, this is my doctor, Harleen Quinzel.” 

A flash of recognition crossed Quinzel’s eyes and she smiled extra wide as she shook Lucius’ hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fox,” she said primly. “I’m sorry to interrupt but the doctor’s ready for Edward’s inspection.” 

“Just as well, Dr. Quinzel,” Lucius said, nodding his head. “I have my own tasks to attend to. Edward.” His gaze flicked from the psychiatrist to the Riddler. “Feel better,” he said earnestly before he turned and walked off. 

Riddler watched him go before he became aware of Quinzel watching him and turned away. 

He entered the examination room and was freed from his chains. The nurse and doctor walked through preparing him for the MRI machine and before long, he was laid out and being slid into the machine. He knew the device would scan him using a strong magnetic field and radio waves. The process was painless and brief so as he laid in the eerie vacuum of the MRI machine, he let his mind wander. He realized that he hadn’t stopped to ask Lucius what he was doing here in the hospital. Probably lending aid on some case or another but he wouldn’t know now. 

He came out of the machine and the nurses began to clean up around him. Quinzel conversed with the doctor in low tones before approaching him. “That’s about all for today,” she said briskly. “The scans will be printed up and sent to Arkham in due time.” 

“Will I get to see them?” 

“I’ll decide that after I’ve gone over them first,” she said, decisive. “Let’s go.”

“Back to Arkham,” he replied sullenly. It was such a short-lived outing. 

“Yes,” Harleen agreed. “Just…not right away.” 

He shot her a curious look but she ignored him. When they got back to the first floor and approached the front desk, a bike deliverer was waiting with a bag in hand. “You have the breakfast platter and the egg sandwich?” 

“Yep!” Quinzel handed over a twenty and took the bag before marching her way out of the hospital with the Riddler in tow. The front of the hospital was styled around a small park area that included a few benches around the low statue of a fish fountain. Quinzel took a seat on one of the benches and began rummaging through the bag of food. She fished out her sandwich and passed him the bag. 

“Figured you’d like something more than the cafeteria had to offer,” she said as she unwrapped her food. “I found this little hole in the wall deli and the owner makes the best egg sandwiches, a true majesty!” 

He smiled at the glowing recommendation and uncovered his own food: a breakfast platter with all the works, pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, and hash browns. The smell of the food immediately made his mouth water. “Oh God,” he muttered, reaching for his fork. “Actual sustenance.”

He quickly stabbed into his food and as he was enjoying his first bite of warm pancake, Quinzel’s voice – too innocent to be sincere – sounded next to him. “So…_Foxy_?” 

Riddler looked at her while he chewed and found her smiling sneakily, her eyebrows arching conspicuously. “Relax,” he said, rolling his eyes a little. 

“What?” she replied back, false indignation ringing out. “He’s just handsome is all. _Very_ handsome.”

“Maybe _you_ should ask him for his number,” Riddler teased before scooping up some hash browns. They could have been seasoned better but they were much better than anything he’d get at Arkham. 

“Nah,” she said, quickly dismissive. “He’s certainly good looking but I don’t think he’s my type.”

“What _is_ your type?” he wondered aloud. 

Quinzel stopped before taking a bite of her sandwich and gave him a mockingly stern look. “Nah uh,” she said. “Flow of information only goes one way with us, buddy.” 

He could admit to himself he was intrigued by the lack of her usual comportment. “That’s a shame,” he said with an easy smile. “Because I’d wager you’re very interesting.” 

Her expression softened a little but she didn’t respond. 

They chowed down after that, enjoying their breakfast under the cold sunlight. While he ate, he cast a roving eye around the grounds, trying for another glimpse of Lucius but the man didn’t reveal himself again. Just as well. He was content to enjoy the brief respite from the confining walls of Arkham. And the food was a welcome treat. When he was returned to Arkham, he spent the rest of the day wandering the halls, trying to find something to preoccupy his mind. The excursion had invigorated him but now he had nothing to focus that energy on. He knew nothing would proceed until Quinzel had the chance to survey his brain scans. Until then, he kept busy with wandering and working out. 

The next time he met for therapy with Dr. Quinzel would be two days later and this time, Jervis Tetch sat in with them. He entered the room after Quinzel, appropriately muzzled with earbuds securely tucked in his ears. Quinzel carried her usual clipboard but behind it was a manilla envelope he was sure contained images of his brain. Though she held herself with her usual reservation, her eyes were lit with excitement, eager to try out her new theory. Her childish enthusiasm was rather endearing. 

“So, Doctor, how shall we begin?” 

She took out her phone and tapped a few times and a metronome sounded in the air, steady, rhythmic clicking. 

“I want you to relax,” she started in a soothing, clinical voice. “I’m here to help you but you have to let me do that. This requires your cooperation. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” he answered and though it came easily, he felt a sense of annoyance that he couldn’t explain. 

“Then shut your eyes.” 

He obeyed. 

“And listen carefully to the sound of my voice, to the shape of my words. Empty your mind of all thoughts and focus only on what you hear.” 

He tried to do as she said as the metronome ticked on and Quinzel’s voice soothed. Before long, he felt his muscles relax and calmness settle in. 

“Tell me why you’re here, Edward,” she commanded. 

“I’m here because…I need help,” he answered. “Psychiatric help.” 

“Do you want to get better?” 

He refrained from snapping, _‘Well, of course!’_ and only said, “Yes.” 

“In order to do that, I must talk to each of your personalities and together, with your help, we’ll diminish them. There will only be one Edward Nygma. Understand?” 

“Yes,” he said softly. 

“Then listen to the ticking. Lose all of your senses except hearing and _listen_,” she practically hissed the last word. 

Riddler listened. He quieted the chatter of his other selves and listened to Harleen’s soft, soothing voice. He matched his breathing with the tick of the metronome and _focused_.

“Follow my instructions, Edward,” Harleen whispered. “I want you to visualize in your mind a palace of your own design, a place where you can be safe. Build the walls in your mind and occupy your palace.” 

He did as she said. The place he pictured was an amalgam of his old loft, the Gotham University library, and Van Dahl manor. He gave it his own spin by reimagining the walls as crude stone with a black and white checkered floor and flaming sconces along the hallways. Somewhere, a piano tinkled lightly, presenting a whimsical mood. 

“Now that you’ve formed that place, call your other selves together,” Harleen commanded. 

He did this by making his way down one of his hallways. The room he entered was a lounge that reminded him vaguely of the Iceberg Club. Here, his other selves assembled. Charisma sat on a low couch, dealing cards to Eddie while Depression sat nearby, watching them play and idly turning a Rubik’s cube. Bloodlust sat across the room, lazily spinning a knife in a circle on a tabletop. 

Riddler looked down at himself and was gratified to find his usual green-suited attire and bowler hat. The change in outfits made him feel leagues more confident. His other selves weren’t looking at him. He was about to join them when Harleen’s voice interrupted again. 

“You are the master of your mind. To keep that mind in order, you must restrict the others. Lock them in your mind palace and make it so that they can’t escape.” 

At her words, he heard a heavy clang like the sound of a gate being drawn shut. The lights in the lounge dimmed and his other selves glanced to the ceiling, wary and questioning. 

“Here you are in control, Edward,” Harleen said. “They cannot move without your say so. And not without the trigger word. Now, listen carefully.” 

He waited patiently for her to continue but the next voice he heard belonged to Tetch. The hypnotist’s tone made him sink deeper into his sense of comfort and security. 

“The child in your heart is insistent and optimistic,” Tetch said quietly. “But you will lean to manners more realistic. Call him forth by the call of Joy, banish him by speaking Destroy.” 

Harleen’s voice rejoined them with an eerie repetition of, “Joy then destroy.” 

He found himself repeating the line, “Joy then destroy.” 

At his utterance, a pair of handcuffs blinked into existence, around Eddie’s wrists. He rattled his chains, gave an annoyed look, but didn’t fight against his restraints. 

Tetch’s voice continued in persuasive, dulcet tones. “Lock sadness away, stuff him deep inside. Keeping him in check keeps you in stride. To summon him, speak the word morose. To banish, raise a toast.” 

Harleen’s voice repeated the invocation and Riddler spoke along with her. In front of him, Depression’s form shifted between solid and corporeal. He did not appear disturbed by this, only interested as he surveyed his see-through hand. Charisma shifted in his seat, sitting straighter and adjusting his tie, sensing that he was next on the list. 

Tetch’s hypnotic voice continued, echoes ringing in Riddler’s ears and his psyche. “Bind up that in you which is kind. Contain the best to keep the rest. Speak honor to call him at your say, speak shame to send him away.” 

Cuffs appeared around Charisma’s wrists. He didn’t look happy at the restraints but he didn’t protest them either. 

Now came the final verse. Bloodlust had grown tense watching what happened to each of their other selves. When Tetch’s voice started up again, he growled under his breath and paced like an animal in a cage. 

“Ropes and cuffs and irons with rust,” Tetch said softly. “All forms of bondage to keep back bloodlust. When I speak this to thee, you’ll come to me. To call on, speak fury. To send away, go in a hurry.” 

As Riddler repeated the words, chains materialized, snaking around Bloodlust’s ankles and wrists, effectively trapping him. He growled and fought against his bindings but they held tight by the power of his own recitation. He was lost in this process until he heard Dr. Quinzel’s voice. 

“Leave them to confinement,” she urged softly. “And come back to me, Edward.” 

The ticking of the metronome stopped and just like, Riddler was freed from the hypnotic state. His ‘mind palace’ vanished along with his other selves and he was sitting back in the room in Arkham with Quinzel and Tetch as company. Tetch looked mild and calm but Quinzel was practically vibrating with excitement. 

“I think that went splendidly,” she gushed. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Tetch. That will be all for today.” She trilled a whistle and the guard outside opened the door. 

Tetch rose to his feet, gave a flourishing bow, then allowed the guard to lead him away. 

Quinzel was scribbling on her clipboard, holding it high so that he couldn’t glance at her words. “This is good,” she muttered under her breath. Then, she addressed him, “If Mr. Tetch’s hypnosis was effective then it will have planted a seed in your mind that, with my help, we will start to grow. Meditation, repetition, and cognitive therapy are on the menu! Are you ready?” 

“What for?” he asked, trying to keep up with her high energy. She seemed like she’d seen a positive outcome though she’d yet to deign to share it with him. 

“Exercise!” she said brightly. “Physical fitness will help with mental fitness. Get dressed!” 

She was clearly not in the mood to be disobeyed with. He did as she said and soon found himself running laps around the asylum. He was much better now then he’d been weeks ago and he barely even got winded anymore. 

The next few days passed in a similar fashion. Instead of their usual schedule of meeting every other day, his sessions were now occurring daily. Each day, Quinzel coaxed him into summoning his mind palace and confronting his other selves while repeating the incantations Tetch implanted to exercise some control of them. It was hard to know if he was making any progress; his psychiatrist continued to keep her observations to herself and his other selves still materialized occasionally but they seemed less inclined to poke and prod him. 

He reasoned with himself to be patient. He _was_ making strides; he just couldn’t afford to get greedy and force everything at once. Besides, another matter required his focus. Jervis Tetch required his payment. 

Over a game of chess, they made the arrangement: Thursday, 5:00 right after the guard shift, outside of Quinzel’s office. Riddler was there well before the appointed time with Aaron Helzinger in tow. He’d given the hulking inmate a stuffed kitten toy that he’d found and made a friend for life; it was easy enough to position Helzinger as their lookout while he and Tetch went about their business. 

The hypnotist in question came slinking up the hall, his paper hat held in his hands in front of him. Without it, he was definitely less conspicuous. Riddler had already jimmied the lock and when Tetch walked up, he pushed the door open and let them both inside. 

Quinzel’s office was small but neat. A quick glance revealed a distinct lack of personal effects: no photos, posters, or trinkets that indicated the kind of woman who inhabited the space. The only such effect was a coffee mug, decorated with red and blue diamonds. 

Tetch cleared his throat and Riddler returned to the situation at hand. He reached into his pants and grabbed his phone, holding it out for Tetch to take. The hypnotist made a face but he didn’t refuse the device. He quickly punched in a number and pressed the phone to his ear, waiting patiently, before he smiled broadly, saying with a tone of affection, “Jon, it’s me.” 

Riddler raised an eyebrow. That was a surprise; obviously Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane were a little closer than mere conspirators. Strangely enough, he was reminded of himself and Oswald. But there was no time to go down that hole right now. While Tetch had his conversation, Riddler intended to find something to his own benefit. 

He was interested in Quinzel’s notes and whether they spoke anything about his future treatment. Her secretive behavior was starting to grate on him a little; this seemed a fine way to redirect his excess energy. 

He started by trying open all her desk drawers. The larger bottom ones on either side were locked and refused to open. The upper ones were not as secured. The left side revealed office supplies and junk food, the right a notepad that Riddler hadn’t seen before. He grabbed it and flipped it open, satisfied to immediately see the name Edward Nygma written in spiky lettering in the center of the page. 

The name was circled and from it came several arrows pointing to the names of his other selves. Those too were circled and underneath them were a list of adjectives Quinzel had assigned to each of his personas. While Tetch caught up with Crane, he sunk into a cross-legged position to read his doctor’s notes. 

His eyes fell to Depression first and his list of traits: morose, negative, self-pitying, defeatist. Eddie’s read: optimistic, energetic, snarky, impulsive, insecure, vulnerable, helpful. Charisma: polite, heroic, honorable, sarcastic, entitled, self-aggrandizing. Bloodlust: sadistic, vengeful, PETTY, impulsive, short-tempered, impatient, selfish. Under Riddler, she had simply written ‘To Be Determined’. 

“What a bitch.” 

Bloodlust piped up behind him, leaning over to read Quinzel’s notes. He dismissed them as soon as he read them. “What does she know?” 

“Yeah, it’s not like she’s a licensed mental health professional or anything,” Charisma said sarcastically, appearing on Riddler’s other side. “I think she’s got your personality down pat.” 

Riddler ignored them as they began to argue. He was further distracted by rapid tapping on the door, Helzinger’s signal. Tetch heard it too because he was quick to wrap up his phone call. “I’ll try to get back to you soon, Jon,” he promised the Scarecrow. “Just keep your lines open.” Riddler stood and replaced Quinzel’s notepad while Tetch ended his call. He joined the other man’s side who passed the phone back and together they cracked open the door. 

They peeked around Helzinger’s looming form and saw Dr. Quinzel and Warden Reed engaged in conversation at the end of the hall. They were focused on each other so the two trespassers snuck out easily, shutting the door quietly behind them. Tetch started down the hall but stopped when he noticed Riddler wasn’t following. 

“What are you doing?” he hissed lowly. 

“Trying to eavesdrop, obviously,” Riddler retorted. He waved his hand to shoo Tetch away. “Go on,” he urged. 

Tetch gave him a considering look before he shrugged and turned away, pulling Helzinger behind him as he went. Riddler turned in the opposite direction and slipped into the room nearest to Quinzel’s office. It was a supply closet that he quickly made himself comfortable in when he heard the sound of the closest door opening and closing and then two arguing voices. 

“With all due respect, sir,” Quinzel was saying, “I took proper preventative measures and minimalized the risk of any threat.” 

“That’s hardly the matter,” Warden Reed shot back. “You took a patient off of these grounds without my express permission! Do you have any idea the repercussions I’d face if Edward Nygma had escaped?” 

Riddler pressed his ear to the wall to hear better. 

“He has no desire to escape,” Dr. Quinzel explained patiently. “You should know that better than anyone as he’s the only patient to have to pay for the privilege of being here.” 

Reed’s voice was strained when he responded. “Be that as it may, Miss Quinzel, there are protocols to follow. If you think you can just do as you please, you’re mistaken, missy!” 

“Seems to me this place has long run with the staff doing as they please,” Quinzel replied icily. “The difference here is that I’m trying to help my patient, not get rich off of him.”

While Reed sputtered in indignation, Riddler heard Quinzel take a step closer. “I can work better without this micromanaging,” she said politely. “I think it’s in the best interest of my patient - and the asylum - if I’m left to exercise my methods with minimal interference. I promise that if the situation gets out of my control, I’ll alert you immediately. We want the same thing after all: for this job to run smoothly for the both of us, right?” She barreled on without waiting for a response. “Wonderful. Thank you, Warden, this talk has been very helpful.” And then she exited before the warden could reprimand her further. 

Well, that certainly was a development. So she’d lied to him when she said their little excursion was sanctioned and she seemed to running game on her boss. It was certainly bold for a recent college graduate on her first job to be pushing such boundaries and testing such limits but Harleen had consistently defied his expectations from the moment he first met her so it did make some sense. But she could be easily fired and so he wondered why she was going to such lengths for what seemed like his benefit. 

He thought back to the days when he’d escaped Arkham the first time. He’d been released on Oswald’s order and allowed to recuperate at his friend’s side in Van Dahl Manor. In the days following his release, Oswald had kept close, helping him to reintegrate to life on the outside. But specifically, Oswald had asked if he’d suffered any abuses that needed to be paid for. With the exception of Miss Peabody threatening him with the cannibal Stirk, his first stay had been mostly uneventful. And Peabody was already dead by the hands of Fish Mooney and her mutant gang; there was no retribution to be enacted. 

This had seemed a huge relief to Oswald and in the privacy of the Van Dahl parlor, he confessed the torments he’d suffered at the hands of Hugo Strange and his experimental trials. He described the excruciating pain of Strange’s unorthodox methods, how the Professor thought of Arkham patients as his own personal fodder for his cruel research. The way Oswald described it, he was happy to have avoided such treatment.

Which is why now, he regarded Quinzel with a careful wariness. She didn’t appear to harbor the same malevolence as Professor Strange. Quite the opposite actually; every bit of her actions seemed devoted to helping him. But still, he felt a grudging caution growing. Perhaps he was beginning to learn from his past; he didn’t want to get drawn into a plot by another mysterious female. He had to behave differently or he’d be forced to repeat the past. 

And he was tired of leaving dead and injured women in his wake. 

After that, he withdrew a bit from Quinzel. He would, of course, still attend his therapy sessions and continue his exercise regimen but he made an effort not to over-worry about her. Instead, he turned his attention back to his smuggled phone. 

He had checked the call history after getting it back from Jervis Tetch and easily committed Crane’s number to memory. He hadn’t listened to their conversation but knowing those two men, chaos was brewing. With Jerome Valeska dead, without him to direct their duo, the Mad Hatter and the Scarecrow, once reunited, were sure to unleash their particular brand of mayhem on Gotham. He’d make sure that when the time came, he could step to the side and avoid the upheaval. All in due time. 

After that, toying with the phone in his hand, he considered reaching out to Oswald. There had been a single number stored in the phone and it belonged to the Penguin. He had avoided talking to his friend but there, in the confining walls of Arkham, he sought out comfort and reassurance. 

_Thank you for the phone._

Of course his first text would be polite. He waited a minute before sending a follow up: 

_The staff are really lackadaisical these days. But that’s a benefit for me. _

Five minutes of silence passed before Oswald answered back: _All the more reason for you to leave. Are you ready to get out of there?_

He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t surprising that Oswald didn’t understand his voluntary incarceration or that he’d steamroll over Riddler’s reasons in pursuit of what he wanted. His friend was consistently single-minded and selfish. He didn’t begrudge him these traits; he just wished Oswald would be a little more supportive. 

He maintained cold civility when he sent back: _Not yet. Thanks for asking after my treatment though. It’s going well._

Oswald didn’t answer after that and Riddler tried to ignore how angry and hurt that made him. He did this by applying some of the meditation techniques Quinzel had devised for him. To quell his negative feelings, he had to focus on something else to distract himself. 

He returned to his phone, switching between a few game apps before landing back on Youtube. He found himself idly scrolling through her videos until the title of one caught his eyes: Mental Health Reminder – A Tribute To My Father. Curious, he tapped the screen to start the four minute video. 

This video was several years old - Zahra was still plainly a teenager and she still had hair, though one side of her head was shaved. She sat on a fire escape overlooking the city and smiled sadly into the camera. 

“Sup, Z Nation, hope all is well out there. This video is going to be a little different from the usual stuff. This is a short PSA and a shout out to my dad whose no longer here with me. Quick hit the Like and Subscribe buttons and we’ll get into it.” 

She dragged her fingers through her hair, seeming to gather herself, before she continued. “If you’ve been following me for a while, you know a lot about my history. For those watching me for the first time, here’s a brief overview: My mother and father both have mental illnesses. My father had bipolar disorder and my mother, though undiagnosed, almost certainly has borderline personality disorder and probably some narcissistic personality issue as well. I’ve inherited the bipolar disorder with a lovely side of depression to go with it. 

I’ll skip over how chaotic and exhausting my childhood was. I’ll just say I loved my dad dearly. We bonded over our own busted brains, as weird as that sounds. When he had insomnia from the mania, we’d stay up together and watch horror movies, smoking cigarettes. My mother never liked how close we were. I don’t know if she thought something inappropriate was happening or if she was just jealous but she did everything to come between us. Screaming matches were a regular occurrence in my house, between my parents and between me and my mother when I tried to defend my dad. She tried to throw me out a few times but my dad never let her. So she kicked him out instead. He usually crashed on couches for a week or so while things cooled down and he returned home. 

Well, she did this on Christmas and my dad was dead by New Year’s. He hanged himself and my uncle came to our house to break the news. I don’t remember a lot about that time; I do know I attacked my mother that night and we spent the night in GCPD lockup. Blah blah blah, long story short: it’s been three years since that day. And every year I light a candle for my dad and I say a prayer but this year I want to say a little more. 

I’ve been on medication since the beginning of high school. Some times it helps, sometimes not. My overall point being this: those of us who grow up with mental illnesses are used to feeling like a burden or a mistake. My dad expressed the same sentiments in his suicide note and I’m here to call bullshit. Neurotypical or not, all people have the right to freedom and happiness. You are sick, not a burden, and you deserve care and consideration. Tomorrow, May 1st, marks the start of Mental Health Awareness Month. For those of you who are allistic and healthy, I urge you to reach out to those you know who may be struggling with mental issues. They need your consideration and your understanding. For those of us in the broken brain club, my advice is this: if you’re struggling, let someone know. Ask for help. If you don’t have family, there are mental health professionals who can help. You should not feel like such a problem that you lock yourself away and stew in bad feelings. You deserve compassion and kindness. Below, I’ve included the suicide prevention hotline in the description, along with a few other similar organizations. I know this is a little heavier than my usual content but it’s important. Nobody needs to lose a beloved family member when there’s help out there to be had. That’s all I got, y’all. Stay tuned for next week’s video, peace and love.” She waved and the video cut out. 

That was interesting and he felt strangely comforted. He couldn’t relate to her feelings of love for her father but he knew intimately about feeling like a burden. It would be a stretch to claim some kind of kinship but his interest in the young woman was rising. He scoured her social media for a way to contact her beyond mere comments and found it. Then he deliberated. 

He waited until 3 AM when the guards were more likely to start slacking in their attentiveness and pulled his blanket up over his head and curled around his contraband. He yearned for a taste of the outside and he was going to get it. He slipped in his earbud and turned up the phone’s volume before tapping through Zahra’s social media until he found a link to video chat. He took a slow steadying breath and pressed the button. 

The ringer trilled five times, long enough for him to believe it’d go missed. But the call picked up at the last possible moment, though only a black screen showed. 

“Hello?” he called out. 

“Oh shit!” Zahra’s voice on the other end sounded. “Is that the motherfucking Riddler?” 

That brought a smile to his lips. “None other than,” he responded with a stronger tone. 

“Hold up one second. I’m not decent in the least.” He heard the sounds of her setting down her phone, the rustling of fabrics and then Zahra speaking absently. “I was really sitting here like, who the fuck is calling me at this time? I thought it was some lame looking to booty call.” The screen suddenly illuminated with Zahra’s image. She was sitting on a bed in what was presumably her room, a chaos of clutter in the background. Zahra was without her trademark visor or dramatic eyeshadow but she had thrown on a quick coat of purple lipstick. She looked much younger without all her embellishments. 

She grinned brightly at the sight of him. “Damn, son, where you been at? Ain’t no one seen you in like two months, what’s that about?” 

“I’ve been busy,” he replied, somewhat amused by her familiarity. He remembered seeing her many times in Cherry’s – the first time being the day Lee assumed rulership over the Narrows – but this was the first time they’d shared words. “Had important business to attend to.” 

“Finding the person who stabbed you and the Doc?” she guessed quickly. 

Riddler paused, listening carefully. She had revealed that Lee never spoke the truth of what happened on that day between them with the denizens of the Narrows. She had kept their near fatal discord a secret. 

“Yes,” he answered smoothly. “It’s proving a tougher job than I expected.” 

“Are you hiding right now?” she asked, her eyes peering behind him. 

“Yes,” he said again. “All part of the job.” 

Zahra shook her head. “That’s straight crazy, man. Well, I hope you wrap up soon. The Narrows misses you.” 

That knocked him unexpectedly off balance though he worked hard to keep that from showing on his face. Instead he asked her, “_Why?_”

Her face screwed up, indignant at his disbelief. “Fuck you mean ‘why’? Because you’re a legend around here. You were the first person to stand up and say ‘fuck Penguin’. You ran right under the GCPD’s nose and robbed five banks. And then you just gave the money away. Like you ain’t even need it. The Doc may be running the show but people haven’t forgotten that.” 

Gobsmacked. That was a good word to describe how he felt. He actually had to press the phone to his chest because he didn’t want Zahra to see the emotions in his face. He was…missed. He was remembered. Lionized and appreciated. He so often felt alone, it was hard to comprehend that people remembered him fondly. 

Through his swell of emotions, he felt something else, a drag of his attention in a different direction. 

_Ed?_ He called out into his mind. 

No answer came but the sensation of being joined continued to linger. 

After a few brief seconds, he raised the phone back up, composed as before. “Sorry about that. Needed a minute.” 

Zahra smiled softly. “That’s cool. Take your time.” 

He cleared his throat and asked. “What’s been going on with the neighborhood?”

And so she told him. She spilled about the business fair, Penguin’s intervention, campaigning among the gangs, the conflict with the Undead, the Indian Hill creation that now walked the Narrows as a defender. It was impressive and stunning to learn that Lee had killed to secure her throne against a usurper. He thought it quite unfair that he was never around to witness her moments of violence. He was with Penguin when she shot Sofia Falcone. He was on his own when she’d smashed up Sampson’s hand. And now this latest act of killing Rafael Martinez. 

_What a vicious little kitten she’s become,_ Bloodlust grumbled, begrudging in his admiration. He continued his pattern of being aroused by Lee’s brutality and that arousal was affecting and distracting him. 

“The Narrows is lucky to have her,” he said softly. And he meant it. But the quiet seed of jealousy that sat in him whispered only that _he_ wanted to have her. He gave a soft sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

A moment of silence then Zahra asked, “Can I ask you something?” 

“What is it?” 

“Will you come to my club’s opening night? It’s on Halloween night so it’ll be a costume party, of course.” 

He was surprised at the request. He remembered that he’d heard about this from Thor but then he’d briefly forgot about it. “I don’t know,” he started hesitantly. 

She pounced on his reluctance. “Come on! You don’t even know what I’m planning. This is the first nightclub in the Narrows in I don’t even know how long. I’m about to put on a show that Gotham’s gonna be talking about for years. I’m trying to be the next Fish Mooney.” 

He chuckled. “Well, you’re certainly ambitious.” 

“If you don’t shoot high, you won’t have shit,” Zahra said bluntly. “I think you know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about.” 

He remembered how much of her family history he’d learned just from watching her videos. He knew the kind of environment she was trying to climb out of. It was the same kind he’d left. 

“I know what you mean,” he agreed softly. 

“Then look at it like this: the Riddler gone for weeks suddenly making a triumphant return at the party of the year! I’ll make some time for you, a performance of some kind, write you some lines. It’ll be so dope!” 

He felt Charisma’s attention perk up at the mention of occupying the spotlight once more. It didn’t sound so bad; he’d only have to sneak out of the asylum on Halloween. “I might have trouble getting a costume in that time,” he said evasively. 

“_I’ll_ get you one. Me and my cousin were huge anime nerds in high school and we were big into going to cons. I was makeup, Yaya was costuming and I tell you that girl can work wonders. Listen.” She sat up in her bed, excitement stamped across her face. “What if I choreograph something for you and the Doc and you guys can do your performance together?” She gasped, her eyes lighting up. “We can make you a couple’s costume!” 

He was amused by her but trying not to jump the gun. “But we’re not a couple,” he pointed out. 

“Then _act_ like it for the audience!” she urged. “Look, if I can get you a costume and work on this performance, will you do it?” 

He didn’t want to reveal just how he anticipated spending a night out on the town but he kept himself in check and gave her a casual, “Sure.” Then quickly as a thought occurred to him, “I’ll do it if you don’t tell the Doc you spoke to me and that I’ll be at the party. I’d like to surprise her.” He gave her a mild, innocent look. “Think she’ll be happy to see me?” 

Zahra grinned. “Fuck yeah. I can definitely finesse this. Let me get back to you when I have something more.” 

“I’ll give you this number. Do me a favor and only send texts.” 

“You got it.” 

They exchanged info and ended the call and Riddler laid back, feeling light and exhilarated. He felt better than he had in some time and interesting events were soon to unfold. He fell asleep feeling strangely optimistic for the future.


End file.
